


like a prayer

by orphan_account



Series: if you were church [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Alternative Universe - 1980s, Codependency, Consent Issues, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Peter POV, Priest Beck, Religious Guilt, Spanking, Student Peter, Underage - Freeform, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-01-22 17:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Either way, Beck is waiting for him at his desk when the door shuts. Silent, but he doesn’t have to say anything. Does he? They both know why Peter is there. He’s already rolling up the sleeves to his clergy frock, and Peter’s already dropping his bag to the floor to unbuckle his belt.And behind a locked door, they fall into a different rhythm of worship.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Series: if you were church [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1484393
Comments: 237
Kudos: 311





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Okay, this is a continuation of the first beckpeter fic I ever wrote...Now, here I am months later, with a fleshed-out chapter fic about these two. I fell in love with them. Oops. You don't really need to read the first installment. The incident that one showcased is mentioned in here enough, I think. But I have edited the old one a little bit to hopefully fit the tone of this one more.
> 
> That said, the relationship Peter and Beck develop is really unhealthy and extremely complicated. I've chosen not to archive the warnings but I will say, the early stages of their relationship really straddle that non-con/dub-con line in fiction. I'll give additional warnings in chapter notes for certain events. And, as mentioned in the tags, Peter is underage at seventeen. Beck is in his early thirties.
> 
> There will be another installment of this universe set after this fic.

Peter starts to think that maybe it was all a dream.

It doesn’t seem real. Nothing really does anymore. He moves on autopilot, like a robot, trying to compute what’s happened for the next week. Then he spends an equal amount of time trying to forget it, but it’s always there. Lurking. The memory creeps up from behind him when he least expects it, wrapping spindly fingers around his neck and squeezing the breath right from his lungs.

Just like right now.

Peter’s eyes are open, staring at the kitchen table, but all he can see is the desk back in Father Beck’s office while his cheek is pressed against it. The room is quiet, save for the clink and scrape of his spoon against the bottom of his cereal bowl, but all he hears is the echoing slaps of a hand on his ass.

“You okay?”

Peter snaps his head up. “What?”

May frowns. “I asked if you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, trying for cheery. He smiles, and it feels puppeted, like Father Beck is behind him, hooking fingers at the corners of his mouth and pulling. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You just seem tired,” May watches him carefully. Tired probably isn’t the word she wants to use. Peter knows that he looks like shit. “Is everything alright at school?”

Peter tenses, hand curling around his spoon. She can tell something is wrong but— no, Peter, she doesn’t _know_. It could be anything. Bullies. Overbearing teachers. Deadlines. Exams. There’s no way she knows that the head priest spanked him, got him hard, and watched him jerk off.

But maybe she _should_.

Maybe he should tell her what happened and ensure that it never happens again. It’d be so easy. May loves him, trusts him, and she would never accuse him of lying. She would never judge him for it either. Peter has long suspected that she knows about him and his preferences. There, of course, had been the whole skin mag debacle last year— but even then, she had seemed more upset about the pornography aspect than the fact every page was plastered with oily, naked men.

“You can tell me,” May says quietly and reaches across the table to pat his arm.

He should tell her, and he nearly does— but the still-fresh humiliation stops him last second.

“You’re right. I’m just tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Peter pauses, swirling the spoon around his bowl, pushing around the soggy cereal. “School is fine.”

In the back of his head, Beck’s voice rings: _Good boy._

“Okay,” May says slowly, cautiously, like she’s not quite sure she believes him. The worried pinch on her face softens, and she smiles, giving his arm one more reassuring pat. "No more late nights, alright?"

Peter smiles weakly and she doesn’t press for more. Their morning goes by a little smoother after that. She tells him some hospital gossip and even though he’s lost on most of it, he welcomes the distraction. Slowly the tightness in his chest lessens and Peter finds himself laughing, sharing stories from school— pointedly leaving out any that have to do with a certain priest— and he brings up the potential job Ned said that he might be able to snag him at the video store. She says it will be good for him. Learn some responsibility, she says, but smiles and winks and Peter knows that she means it will be good for him to have a little of his own spending money.

He almost feels normal by the time he’s gelling his hair down, combing it to the side just right. That sinking feeling in his gut is nearly gone, and when he brushes his teeth, he barely imagines biting down on a rosary.

Life goes on.

It’s inevitable that it happens again, just when the memory starts to wane.

It’s not his fault, not really, that Flash is a dick. Peter hadn’t done anything but defend himself, but unfortunately, it’s Father Beck that rounds the corner and catches the tail-end of a confrontation. And it’s Father Beck that stands with his arms crossed, looking down at Peter sprawled on the concrete.

It’s the first time Peter has seen him since the incident, and he hates, more than anything, the invasive thoughts that run rampant. Mainly, how he can’t help but notice the barest hint of five o’clock shadow, and how it suits him. It makes him look older.

Peter swallows.

He’s in trouble, in more ways than one.

Flash gets sent on his way and Peter gets a firm request to join Father Beck in his office. Only, it’s not a request at all because, if it were, he’d have a choice— and there’s nothing in the tone of his voice that suggests Peter has one. It’s the same voice that’d told him to touch himself after being spanked raw. Peter hadn’t disobeyed then, and he isn’t going to disobey now.

So, he finds himself, once again, sitting across from Father Beck, his eyes unable to lift from the desk where the memory of being bent over it plays on a loop in the back of his mind.

“Fighting? Peter, really?”

“Flash started it,” he mumbles, tearing his eyes away from the dark wood and focusing on something safer. The window, where the sun shines through the stained glasses, the colorful silhouette of a Saint silently judging him with folded hands.

Peter turns back to Beck. Might as well look the devil in the eyes.

It was just a shove, but it doesn’t matter. That’s not why he’s here and he knows it. They both do. Father Beck could have walked up on Flash beating the shit out of him, and it would still be Peter sweating in this uncomfortable chair.

“Peter,” Beck says, holds up Peter’s Walkman and raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure I’ll find institute approved music on this.”

Probably not, but Peter doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything at all, because all he can focus on is the quiet rage building in his chest. Beck is smiling with his teeth and enunciating everything he says with an air of light humor. It’s just an unsettling mask; he’s just pretending to be someone who cares.

He’s just pretending to be _normal_ and god, that’s what does it. That’s what makes him snap.

“Can I just have it back? I swear, I’ll—”

Beck’s face hardens and he stares, eyes narrowed. Just like that, the mask is gone.

“I’ll,” Peter swallows, “I’ll be good.”

“I thought you already promised me that,” Beck says evenly, but Peter sees how his hands shake. He sits the Walkman down carefully and folds them beneath his chin. “But here you are, Mr. Parker. It’s almost like you want to be here.”

_Oh, fuck you._

Peter keeps his mouth shut because if he opens it, that’s probably exactly what will come out.

“Do you?”

“No, sir,” Peter says between teeth. In his lap, his fists ball up so tight that he feels the cut of his nails on his palms. “I’d like to go back to class.”

“You can.”

Oh. Peter unclenches.

Maybe Beck realizes how fucked up their last meeting was. That, what they did? It _wasn’t_ normal and definitely not protocol. He’s probably just trying to save his ass, and whatever, telling the authorities requires admitting that he got off on it, so Peter’s inclined to keep the whole ordeal to himself.

Hopefully, Beck is too.

“Thank you, sir,” Peter says with a nervous, forced smile, and goes to stand. He catches a glimpse of Beck’s dark gaze and immediately knows it won’t be that easy. It nearly paralyzes him on the spot.

“After your punishment.”

Ah. There it is.

“No,” Peter says because something in him breaks. He can’t do it again. God, it’s humiliating. Getting spanked like a child is bad enough. Getting hard and coming at the hands of his unfairly attractive, monster of a priest during said spanking is another thing entirely. “C’mon, Father Beck. I didn’t even do anything.”

Beck stands. “Hands on the desk.”

Okay, so he’s not playing around. The more he fights this, the worse it’s going to be. He’ll just bend over, grin and bear it, and pray to fucking god that the last time was a one-off.

Peter defiantly strips his backpack from his shoulders and drops it to the floor with a loud thud. He debates pulling his pants down since that was part of the deal last time but ultimately leaves them on. Fuck Beck. If he wants him to strip, he can do it himself.

Peter puts his hands on the edge of the desk; back arched, legs spread, and ass out. In formation. Beck walks slowly around him, like a predator stalking prey, and Peter can feel his eyes on him. They sear a hot trail over his backside.

“I think you know the rules,” Beck says quietly. His voice is thick, low. Strange. “Off.”

“Take ‘em off then,” Peter says because he must be a glutton for punishment. Oh well, if he’s just gonna bend over and let Beck tear him up, the least he can do is make the bastard work for it.

Plus, maybe he remembers how Beck stripped him last time had left him hard. So what? Might as well get a little pleasure with his pain.

“Mr. Parker,” Beck warns.

Peter thinks, for just a moment, that maybe he’ll just administer the lashings over his slacks. That maybe telling Beck to take them off has pushed this all step too far. Which is laughable, really. But then there’s a looming presence directly behind him, a soft mound of a cock pressed against his ass, and big, broad hands circling his waist to unbutton his pants. Shit. His stomach is already flipping.

Peter swears he feels Beck tremble.

His slacks are pushed cautiously over his hips and down his legs, a slow drag that makes Peter’s head spin. Behind him, Beck’s breathing gets heavier; ragged and shaky. Peter hears him swallow, and then feels him step away.

“There we go.”

Something is off, but before Peter can put a finger on it, Beck gets a hand on him. No warning, just a hard slap that echoes. There’s no count, there’s no praise. Peter is forced to just close his eyes and take it over, and over, and over. One after the other, relentless and unforgiving. And Beck grunts with each one, hissing under his breath.

Peter forgets to count.

He knows his ass is red and blotchy. He remembers how it’d looked after their last session when he’d carefully peeled away his underwear in the bathroom and checked out the damage in the mirror. There’s probably already a Beck-shaped handprint embedded in his skin.

At least this time he’s not crying. He’s too numb.

“Do you think you can take a few more?” Beck asks quietly, and it jolts Peter back to lucidity.

The answer is no. He can’t. His skin is on fire and there’s already a dull ache forming beneath his skin. He’s going to have to chill on his belly with a bag of frozen peas laid over his ass at this rate. Sitting down in those hard classroom chairs? That’s out.

The answer is _no_.

So, Peter can’t figure out why he says— “Yes, sir.”

Peter comes sometime later, moaning into a stack of papers, jerking his cock and pushing back against Beck’s hand. It’s a momentary release of pleasure that helps to eclipse the guilt of it all. But once it’s over, there’s the crash. Peter rushes clean up with the box of tissues sitting at the corner of Beck’s desk. He avoids eye contact and avoids Beck’s gentle tone when he tells him how good he was.

He doesn’t want to hear it.

He just wants to leave.

It happens again, more and more often. Peter has almost figured out the algorithm for it. Beck leaves him alone for a week, sometimes two, and then he’s calling Peter into his office for the most minor of missteps.

Most of the time it’s the same old routine. Beck pretends to give a shit about whatever insane excuse he’s conjured up to bring him in, while Peter half-listens and sets to positioning himself on the desk. But other days, Beck seems to be in a different headspace entirely. A whole other planet. He’s distant, eyes vacant, and when he speaks it's soft and full of, what might be genuine praise.

Beck’s hand is heavier those days and Peter leaves with his backside looking like a moldy peach.

It’s not like Peter gives a shit what causes them, but sometimes he finds himself on the verge of asking what’s up. It’s unsettling, that’s all— and yeah, it’s harder for him to come when Beck looks so fucking haunted.

But it doesn’t bother him anymore, not like it used to. Not like it did that first time. 

Sometimes he even finds himself replaying their sessions in his mind like a bad movie. Bad porno, rather. Beck doesn’t touch him beyond spanking. He just watches, and maybe that should creep him out, but in the privacy of his head, Peter imagines that he does.

He tries hard not to think about those nights when he’s weak and desperate for a fantasy of his own. They always leave him feeling weird and hollow—and he’s almost figured out the algorithm for those too. Usually, late nights when May’s been working doubles and Beck hasn’t bothered him in a while. It’s easier to forget what a fucking ass he is by then.

And then, in turn, it’s easier to remember the rare moments when Beck is soft and apologetic. The moments where Beck gently tucks errant strands of hair back behind Peter’s ears. The moments where he thumbs away tears. The moments where he shares a private smile and tells Peter that he looks pretty.

Someone snaps their fingers in front of his face.

“Earth to Peter Parker.” Ned waves a hand in front of his eyes, snapping again. “Dude, are you okay?”

Peter spirals and crashes back down to reality. More specifically, to the shaded spot beneath the school’s awning that he and Ned usually spend their free period. It’s got a nice view of the courtyard, and it’s far enough away from the picnic tables that upperclassmen tend to overlook them.

Upperclassmen, maybe, but not Father Beck, who strides from the double doors and barely makes eye contact. Just a quick nod that has Peter’s stomach flipping.

“Yeah,” Peter mutters, and he sounds a million miles away, even to himself. He grabs his backpack and drags himself up the brick wall. His eyes follow Beck as he walks past them, toward the doors to the east wing. Toward his office. “Hey, I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

“What? We still have thirty minutes left. Where are you going?” Ned starts to stand up, but Peter stops him with a shake of his head.

“I forgot I had, uh, I have a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, walking backward, giving his friend a reassuring thumbs-up. “See you after school?”

Ned nods, a bit dumbfounded, and Peter spins on his heel and tries not to jog to Beck’s office, something akin to excitement in his gut. He doesn’t know why he does it. Not really. Some primitive part of his brain just overrides all his common sense. He shouldn’t be running to spanked and told to come. There is a perfectly good bottle of lotion on his nightstand and jerking off in bed is _just_ as satisfying as jerking off with Beck watching him.

But he hasn’t had the time for all that, Peter reasons. That must be why.

Or maybe it’s a Pavlovian response to being ignored.

Either way, Beck is waiting for him at his desk when the door shuts. Silent, but he doesn’t have to say anything. Does he? They both know why Peter is there. He’s already rolling up the sleeves to his clergy frock, and Peter’s already dropping his bag to the floor to unbuckle his belt.

And behind a locked door, they fall into a different rhythm of worship.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of that extreme dub-con that I warned you about.

“You’re tardy.”

“What? No. I’m just—” Peter looks at the clock hanging on the wall and deflates. Fuck. “I’m just five minutes. Please.”

“I’m sorry, Parker. This is the third time this week. If you have more important things to do than attend class, you can do them in Father Beck’s office.” Sister Janice gives Peter a pointed look, one that says he better hightail it to said office if he doesn’t want to spend the next week or so in detention and hands him a write-up.

“Yes, mam,” Peter sighs and she shuts the door in his face.

Great.

He doesn’t want to say that Beck is avoiding him, but well, it certainly feels that way. It’s been close to two weeks since he'd last seen him, and this is the first time in ages that he’s been sent to his office by someone other than Beck himself. Maybe…maybe he’ll be thrown off just enough to properly scold him and send him on his way.

Maybe he’s finally bored.

The idea of Beck turning him down weighs heavy on his chest, filling him with an odd mixture of relief and dread. Time apart has certainly cleared his head. He recognizes the ordeal for what it is. Fucked up. He doesn’t like Beck, maybe even hates him, but there’s a darker part of his psyche that is sated when he’s bent over and slapped silly. He retreats into his head and the world becomes less noisy. Allows him just to exist without the heaviness of everything else.

It’s nice, for lack of better words.

But— he knows it needs to stop because the longer it goes on, the harder actually stopping will be. And Beck is an honest-to-god psychopath and he can get his fix somewhere else. Or, no, he doesn’t need a fix. He needs to focus on his studies, get some scholarships. Do something good in his life, for himself and everyone else.

Yeah, this needs to stop.

Peter stops in front of the office and stares at the dark oak, an evident tremor in his hands when he reaches for the doorknob. Fuck.

For a moment he thinks the room is empty and that he’s off the hook; that he can spend the rest of the period with his headphones on, finishing up his homework in peace. Everything is so quiet and stagnant, that even the faint click of the door shutting echoes like a gunshot.

Across the room, something moves.

“Father Beck?”

Beck raises his head from the desk and blinks away sleep…? Tears? Peter can’t make it out. He only knows that the whites of Beck’s eyes are red and bleary and that he seems just on the wrong side of haggard. To put it mildly, he looks like shit.

“Peter?” Beck asks, his voice strangely hoarse. “What are you doing here?”

“Tardy,” Peter answers, short and clipped. Sort of a weird thing to ask, and even weirder to hear Beck call him by anything other than his last name. “Sister Janice sent me.”

Something is off, worse than usual, and the room seems unbalanced. Beck stares at the orange slip of paper that Peter waves like a traffic flag, but Peter isn’t sure Beck sees a damn thing. He’s looking right through him.

Jesus Christ, what’s his deal?

“I mean, I can just…go,” Peter tries. Worth a shot.

“No,” Beck says too quickly, and then quieter, softer— “No. You can’t.”

_Can’t_. Of course.

Peter huffs out an irritated laugh, nods, and lets his backpack fall lazily to the floor; it echoes with a loud thud. Beck hasn’t stopped staring, and Peter is determined not to break the weird, prolonged game of eye-contact chicken.

So, he doesn’t look away when he unbuckles his belt, or when he slips it through the loops and lets it drop with a clink against the hardwood; or when he unbuttons his pants; or when they fall to his ankles; or when he steps out of them to stand only in his briefs and school-approved button up.

And he doesn’t look away when Beck stands up and removes his clerical collar, setting it down gently on the desk before rolling up his sleeves.

Peter swallows. “Sir?”

Beck doesn’t say anything. He walks to the chaise beneath the stained-glass window and sits. The air feels heavy with tension, clawing at Peter’s throat. “Across my knee,” he finally orders.

“What? You’re joking,” Peter laughs, face falling when Beck doesn’t crack a smile. He just watches as Beck leans back and lets his thighs fall open and waiting. Something clicks. “You’re not joking.”

Oh god.

He should run. That’s what he should do. He should run straight to the authorities and spill everything, embarrassment be damned. He has the marks to prove it all. It’d be so easy. He could run Beck right out of town, and this would never happen again. Not to him, at least. Or, he could get him put behind bars so that it won’t happen to _anyone._

_Or_— and Peter pauses, his eyes dropping down to the tent in Beck’s tight, black slacks— he could be good and do what Father Beck asks.

What the hell is wrong with him?

A lot, apparently. Because fine, if Beck wants to take this a step further, so will Peter. He unbuttons his shirt all the way and it falls off his shoulders, joining the pool of clothing at his feet. Toes off his shoes and realizes he should probably take his trouser socks off too, but whatever. He’ll keep them and the illusion of modesty for argument’s sake.

“That’s good,” Beck whispers, low and hungry. The intense appraisal is a bit nerve-wracking, especially as that hardened gaze drags up and down Peter’s body. There’s something else there too, simmering beneath the surface, something Peter can’t name. Beck pats his thigh. “Come on.”

“Okay,” Peter says on a shaky breath. “Okay, alright.”

Getting across Beck’s lap is an awkward affair. Peter’s small, much smaller than Beck, but he’s lanky and the chaise doesn’t offer much room, to begin with. The moment he lays across Beck’s thighs, there are hands all over him, running up his back and down to the dip just above his underwear.

It feels…_good._

So good that Peter can’t muffle the pleased little noise that escapes him.

Above him, Beck sucks in a breath, and Peter feels the hard cock pressing against his stomach twitch. Oh. That’s new. He’s not an idiot, he knows Beck usually gets rock solid from their sessions but seeing it through a tent of fabric is one thing, and feeling it pressed hot against him is another.

“Perfect,” Beck whispers.

Peter doesn’t know if he’s talking about this new position or the view. Either way, the praise brings a blush to his cheeks and he tries to bury it in his hands, hating more than anything how he craves more.

“How many?” Peter asks.

Beck hums like he’s thinking, something that always makes Peter nervous. There’s no rhyme or reason to his punishments anymore. To the point that Peter barely even thinks of them as such. It’s just something that happens.

Something that he even looks forward to.

“How many do you think you can take?” Beck asks him.

Peter squeezes his eyes shuts and breathes through his nose. Fuck. He hates getting to choose. It’s worse when he has a say; when he feels like he has a hand in it all. Feeling like Beck is _taking_, turns out, is a lot easier to swallow than feeling like he’s readily _giving_.

“Fifteen,” Peter tells him. It’s been a while. He knows he could take more. But he also knows that Beck sometimes gets carried away and aiming lower is always a better bargain.

“That seems fair,” Beck says. He hooks a finger under the waistband of Peter’s underwear and snaps it. “You can keep these on.”

Peter can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment that he feels.

Relief, he decides. It’s definitely a relief because he’s already firming up quickly after being pressed against something so warm and solid.

“Thank you,” Peter says, voice already cracking with nerves. Then quickly adds— “Sir.”

“Are you ready?” Beck asks, and Peter closes his eyes and nods. Ready as he’ll ever be. “Good.”

He braces himself for the first smack, but it comes softly. Hesitantly. Unsure in a way that Beck’s never really been before. Huh. Maybe he’s just getting warmed up, trying to trip him up and let his guard down.

The next follows much the same, only this time Beck’s hand lingers and kneads before lifting again. Peter bites his lip hard enough to break the skin, because—_shit_. That feels good.

Too good. This could be trouble.

The third is a little heavier, slapping and stinging. Closer to what Peter’s used too. Just how he likes.

Usually, he zones out after a couple of strikes and retreats into his mind, riding out the pain while Beck takes him apart. But, by the time they’re up to ten, Peter is sweating and moaning around his knuckles because each slap rocks him against Beck’s thigh and sends an electric shock up his spine. There isn’t any ignoring his situation below the belt. God, he knows the front of his briefs are already soaked, and if Beck doesn’t stop there’s going to be a bigger problem.

“Stop,” Peter gasps and tries to hold his hips still but it’s hard to do when every reflex in his body tells him to grind forward and seek a sweet release. “Stop. If you don’t—”

“You said you could take fifteen,” Beck says, and he sounds breathless.

Of course, he’s gonna throw his words back in his face. “I lied.”

Silence. There’s no mercy. Beck slaps his ass hard, and Peter feels the sting of it right before the blinding pleasure blooming in his gut that has his cock twitching.

“Please, sir,” Peter chokes out, near sobbing. He wipes at his wet eyes with the back of his hand. “Please—”

“Is it too much?” The genuine softness of the question throws Peter off guard. Beck’s hand stays on his ass, petting, and caressing. Soothing gestures that make Peter’s stomach curl with how much he craves them. “Are you hurting?”

God, isn’t that the _point?_

“No,” Peter says quietly. “That’s—that’s not it.”

“What is it?”

What? Is that _concern?_ Does Beck think he’s an idiot? Oh well. At least this is helping to calm down his raging hard-on. Maybe he can last a couple more strikes and escape unscathed. Or—at least maybe he can jerk off into his fist like normal.

“Nothing. Just—just keep going.”

Bad idea.

The next slap knocks a breathy moan from him, and he has to dig his nails into the leather of the chaise. Beck doesn’t move his hand, just keeps kneading Peter’s burning flesh, pulling him apart in the process. And god, Peter wants those fingers to edge just a little closer— which is a thought that shakes him to his very core.

Without warning, Beck smacks him again.

“Okay,” Peter whispers, “okay, stop. I can’t. I’m gonna—”

There’s no way he’s gonna make it.

“You’re going to what, Peter?”

And there’s no way Beck doesn’t know. He has to feel Peter’s cock pressing hard and wet against him because Peter certainly feels _Beck’s_ cock like a fucking rock against his stomach.

“Peter.”

Beck just wants to hear him say it. Sick fuck.

“I’m gonna, _ahhh_, god—” Peter whines. Beck’s hand on his ass pushes down, moves him, forcing him to grind against his thigh. “I’m—”

Beck frantically grabs ahold of Peter’s briefs and yanks them down. It takes a couple of tugs to get them over his dick, but once he’s free to rub against the smooth fabric without a barrier, Peter nearly cries. Every single one of his nerve endings is on fire.

“Stop.”

It’s a weak protest and not a very convincing one when Peter’s body moves easily while Beck guides his hips, over and over, rocking him hard against his leg. The pressure builds and builds and soon enough, Peter doesn’t need the aid from Beck at all. He’s moving on his own, and Beck’s hot palm on his ass is just a novelty.

“_Sir_—”

God, Peter wishes he could see his face. He needs to know that Beck is just as wrecked as he is. He needs to know that he’s not the only one affected.

“Are you going to come, Peter?” Beck growls, sounding near manic, and pushes Peter to grind down harder. “Are you going to come for me?”

“Yes, yes, _yes_—” Peter chokes out.

Yeah, he’s gonna come for him. Dammit.

His body tenses, his back arches, and then he comes hard, right over Beck’s thigh. Peter stains his black slacks with ropes of white before collapsing over his lap with labored breaths. It takes a moment for reality to catch up with him, but as he lays there, he hears Beck gasp, feels his hand tremble where it still rests against his ass.

Peter tilts his head to look over his shoulder. He hopes Beck is pleased with himself because, strangely enough, he has no complaints of his own.

But Beck doesn’t look pleased.

He looks fucking mortified.

“Hey, uh, are you alright?” Not that Peter cares, but he looks like he’s seen a ghost and he’s feeling generous in a post-orgasm haze. “Do you want me to…?”

Beck’s distant stare drops down to him, startled like he’s only just noticed Peter was there at all. “What?”

“I don’t know,” Peter says, trying to come across as nonchalant, but sounding more awkward than anything. “Do you want me to like…return the favor?”

It’s not something they’ve done before, but then again, neither is this. Beck has never so directly got him off before.

“Peter, _no_,” Beck hisses like he can’t believe the audacity of such a question. His gaze shifts down to Peter’s ass where it’s still red and very much unclothed. “Get off.”

“Already did,” Peter jokes because, to be completely honest, he’s starting to feel a little insecure about the whole affair. He just needs something, anything, to cut the tension.

Beck doesn’t crack. Peter barely gets a glimpse of a furrowed brow and bared teeth before he’s being unceremoniously shoved off Beck’s lap and onto the floor. He hits the hardwood with a painful thud, catching himself on his elbows. “Hey! What the _fuck_?”

“I said to get off me.”

Peter’s laugh is humorless as he struggles to pull his briefs back up his thighs, ignoring the mess happening between them. Beck stands and rubs feverously at the stain on his pants. Whatever, it’s useless. That’s not coming out without a wash, but Peter doesn’t tell him that. He focuses solely on grabbing his discarded clothes and pulling them back on.

“Get out,” Beck whispers.

“Okay, Christ, let me get dressed.”

The stone in Peter’s stomach gets heavier; like he’s gonna be sick. He nearly falls over trying to get his foot through his pantleg quick enough.

“Hurry.”

“I am,” Peter hisses. Shit, his eyes are getting blurry. Don’t cry, Parker. Don’t let this asshole see you cry. Don’t let him win. He fumbles with his belt and misses a loop completely; from across the room, he hears Beck sigh a warning. Fuck it. He threads it the rest of the way through and haphazardly tucks in his shirt.

God, he hopes he at least looks like something that can pass for normal. But he feels it written all over his skin. Big, red angry letters scrawled across his face that says, “I let Father Beck get me off.” Peter scrubs at his cheeks with his sleeve; irrationally tries to wipe away the tears and the invisible words.

He picks up his backpack last, slinging it over his shoulder and heading toward the door before Beck can tell him to leave again. Something sick possesses him, and he can’t help it, he looks over his shoulder one last time.

Beck is leaned against his desk, his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. He must feel Peter watching him because his head snaps up and Peter swears that they look red. Watery.

Anger claws through his chest.

What the _fuck_ does Father Beck have to cry about? Peter isn’t the one who started this. He’s not the one that forced Beck’s hand. He didn’t crawl on Beck’s lap and beg to come because it sounded like a fun way to spend his afternoon. But now Beck was— _what?_ Playing the victim?

“You’re unbelievable,” Peter spits out.

“Don’t make me tell you again.” Beck’s eyes narrow; a threat. Somehow, he doubts this one ends with him bent over.

Peter swallows and turns back to the door, heart racing. He leaves before he can find out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is intense and pretty heavy. Extreme dubious consent.

There’s a note on the table when he gets home.

Leftovers are in the fridge; May is working a double. Don’t wait up. That’s the third time this week, and Peter nearly collapses in on himself. He feels like a child, but he wants his aunt. He can’t tell her—god, no, he can’t tell her what’s going on—but she always has a way of knowing what to say.

Peter crumples up the note and tosses it in the trash. It isn’t May’s fault she has to work, work, work, and work some more. She’s trying to do right by him and taking care of someone alone isn’t easy work. Sometimes, he can’t help but feel that Uncle Ben’s death took away both of them for that very reason.

It’s a selfish thought, he knows.

But right now, he just wants to be a little selfish. The world owes him that, right? No one is asking him what he wants. Not May. Not Beck. Not even himself.

And what _does_ he want?

Peter realizes he’s been standing, zoned out, in the kitchen staring at the wall. Okay, get it together. What needs to happen? What does he need to do?

He needs to end this fucked-up thing with Beck before it goes any further.

That’s it.

He also needs a shower. The insides of his briefs are stiff and sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He’s sweaty and smells like sex, and worst of all, like Beck. That deep, warm scent of his cologne is all over him, ingrained in his uniform and his hair and on his skin.

Everywhere.

Peter spends the next thirty minutes under a spray of scalding water trying to scrub it off.

He tries desperately not to let his thoughts wander to Beck or the way he looked so scared, so…broken. Probably just afraid that he crossed a line, which he did. Or, afraid that Peter will come clean, which he won’t.

He’s a monster, unworthy of Peter’s sympathy, and yet— those red-lined, blue eyes are all he can see when he closes his eyes to wash the soap from his face. And the only thing he hears over the thrum of water against the tile is Beck’s shaky, scared voice.

“_Peter, no._”

_“Get out.” _

It resounds in his head over and over. The more Peter relives it, the more pissed off he gets. He has some fucking nerve; making_ him_ feel like _he’s_ the one violating Beck’s trust and boundaries. No. That’s not how it works.

But, if that’s how Beck _wants_ Peter to feel? Fine.

The water goes cold, probably for the best, and Peter gets out, towels off, and forms a plan.

It’s a stupid fucking plan.

Peter looks down at the slip of yellow paper in his hand; at the address scrawled over the lines. The address that had accompanied the name _Quentin Beck_ in the phone book. The address that led him to the old brownstone he stands in front of now.

He folds up the note and shoves it in the pocket of his jean jacket. Somehow, absurdly, dressing out of his uniform makes Peter feel more powerful, more in control; like he’s his own person and no longer at the mercy of Beck. He feels like he can do this.

He _can_ do this.

Peter puts his finger over the peephole and pounds on the door like he’s the police. And yeah, he hopes that’s what Beck thinks— that the authorities are finally here to cart him away. Let him sweat.

But the door swings open and all Peter’s confidence blows away like a weak flame. Beck looks so normal, so unassuming, in his casual sweater and khakis, looking like a sitcom dad or friendly neighbor. Worst of all, he looks _handsome_ and Peter just wants to fucking punch him.

“Peter?” Beck looks him up and down, from his worn Chuck Taylors to his backward baseball cap. Peter tries not to squirm under the same scrutiny he’d just given Beck. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“No. You need to leave.”

Beck tries to slam the door, but Peter wedges his foot in the threshold and pushes his way in. God, he’s so sick of being told no. If it doesn’t matter when he says it, why should it matter when Beck does? And those boundaries that he wants to act like Peter broke? Yeah, he’s breaking them.

“No,” Peter bites out, wiggling from beneath Beck’s arm, “I don’t need to do anything, but let me tell you what _you_ need to do.”

Beck stares, wild-eyed and furious, slamming the door behind him. Peter swallows because, well, now there isn’t any turning back. He’s here, in Beck’s house, alone, and he pissed him off.

Why did he think this was a good idea?

“Well?” Beck asks.

“Yeah, okay—” Peter clears his throat and squares his shoulders. “This,” he gestures between the two of them, pointedly raising his eyebrows, “has to stop.”

Unsettling silence falls between them and Beck continues to stare with a set jaw; eyes narrowed and drilling a hole right through the center of him. Peter knows that look.

Fuck.

He squares his shoulders. “I’m serious.”

“Is that why you came here?” Beck asks. He takes a step forward, and Peter takes a step back, all in a strange tango. “Because you want me to stop?”

“Y—yeah. That’s right.”

_Is it? _

Peter stops, stands his ground, and refuses to move as Beck steps into his space. He doesn’t even flinch when a knuckle brushes against his cheek, and then slowly down the side of his neck. The shiver, however, is completely involuntary.

Beck leans in, lips against the shell of Peter’s ear, and whispers— “No. _I’m_ serious, Peter. You need to leave.”

The intimidation isn’t going to work. He’s gonna give it back as good as he gets. That’s step two of the plan. Peter grabs the front of Beck’s stupid sweater and holds him in place, ignores the frantic pump of adrenaline through his body. Or, maybe it’s what fuels him. Who knows?

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Beck pulls back as much as he’s allowed. His eyes drop to Peter’s mouth, then drag slowly back up to meet his eyes. The blue is almost gone, swallowed up by black, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a nervous, lopsided smile. Humorless and terrifying.

“What do you want, Peter Parker?” Beck asks. “Why are you here?”

The feral, crazed look on his face asks an unspoken question— _Don’t you know I’m trouble?_

Yeah. Peter, he knows. He knows _exactly_ what kind of trouble Beck is. He knows the exact kind of danger.

And he knows exactly why he’s there.

Peter yanks him closer by the collar until Beck’s cheek scrapes against his. His lips move against the stubble, making sure to leave a hot trail in their wake. It’s not a kiss; Beck doesn’t deserve that. But it still makes Beck shudder and once again, Peter is filled with a sense of power. He just needs to make sure Beck can’t turn him down, because—

Step three: _Make him an offer._

“I want you to get it out of your system,” Peter whispers against him. “Then you _never _touch me again.”

A hand grabs Peter’s wrist and he has just enough time to see where Beck’s thick fingers are wrapped completely around the circumference of it before his grip on that stupid cable-knit sweater is wrenched free and he’s being pushed back. Peter collides hard against the wall, head knocking against the ugly floral print, and Beck’s on him before he can move away. That hand, that _big_ hand, slams next to his head, caging him. Trapping him.

Peter swallows hard. Oh god, he’s so fucking turned on. This isn’t _fair_.

“Is that really what you want?” Beck growls.

For a moment, Peter swears he sees a flash of hurt, or maybe confusion. Whatever. He can’t back down, and he can’t fall for Beck’s mind games.

“Yeah. It is.”

“Why?”

“Are you serious?” Peter tries not to gape, he really does. “What do you mean _why_? Because I’m sick of getting spanked like a child? Because I’m— I’m sick of you taking advantage of me.”

“No,” Beck says, and how is he so calm right now? “Why come here and offer me the option?”

Peter opens his mouth, then promptly closes it when he realizes he doesn’t have a good answer. Shit.

Beck tilts his head. “You could have gone to the school board. Your aunt? The authorities?”

“I—”

“But you came here,” Beck finally says and smiles. _Smiles_. Peter wants to knock those perfect teeth right from his mouth, and not even because his implication is wrong.

No, for a reason far worse. Because it’s _right_.

Peter wants him, one last time.

He knows he’s probably fucked up in the head for it. He knows that he shouldn’t spend nights with his hand down his pants, replaying memories of Beck telling him how good he is. He knows he shouldn’t have come so hard while grinding himself against Beck’s leg. He knows he shouldn’t still find Beck uncomfortably hot, even as he looms over him like a wolf on prey.

It doesn’t really change anything.

“Do you want me, or not?” Peter asks, narrowing his eyes in what he hopes is a challenge.

Beck shuts his eyes and lets out a shaky sigh. “Don’t ask me that,” he whispers, but his hands still come to Peter’s shoulders, pushing under the collar of his jacket and easing it off. Peter lets him, breath caught in his throat, paralyzed by the subtle intimacy of it all.

“Do you want me?” Peter asks again. He can’t help it. He needs to hear it, just as bad as he can tell Beck needs to say it.

Beck answers by pressing his weight down. Peter meets him in the middle, canting his hips forward to feel the rigid line of a cock against his hip.

“Oh god,” Peter gasps, immediately grabbing at Beck’s shoulders to steady himself. He feels like he could melt into a puddle and slip right through the cracks of the hardwood.

He feels like he’s losing his mind.

Because, for a moment, he lets himself get lost in a fantasy where Beck takes him right there against the wall. He’s never been fucked— he’s never even seen Beck’s dick— but somehow, he can still vividly picture his legs wrapped around Beck’s waist while he drives up into him. He’s probably ruthless with it, just like he is with his hand.

Or— maybe he’s soft, and tender, like in those rare moments where his eyes are big and sad while he calls Peter beautiful.

It’s hard to tell.

Beck runs a hand along his neck, up the side of his throat, and stops to rub a soothing circle at the soft spot beneath Peter’s ear. His eyelids flutter shut, and Peter watches him take in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It’s so strange to witness at times— a man like Beck falling apart over something so simple. Not that Peter has any room to talk, with the way he shivers when Beck’s thumb slides across his jaw and then drags across his bottom lip.

On instinct, Peter darts his tongue out licks it. It’s salty, and yet something possesses him to chase that taste when he jerks his hand back out of his reach.

“On the couch,” Beck groans and pushes himself off the wall, pushes himself away from Peter. He covers his mouth with his hand, contemplative and calculating. Waiting.

“Yes, sir,” Peter says as he passes by, knocking his shoulder with his. He tries to make it appear mocking like he wants to be a brat. But it riles Beck up and that’s why Peter does it; because, unfortunately, he likes when his eyes go dark and his nostrils flare.

Beck follows close behind him, his presence near suffocating. Peter can feel him, and he hasn’t even been touched yet. Which— god, his ass is still tender from earlier, even if he hadn’t gone as hard as he typically did.

It’ll be worth it though, Peter thinks.

_It means this will end._

“This is the last time,” he reminds Beck, tossing his hat off onto the floor. Then his shirt. Then his pants. He tries not to address that nagging voice telling him that he’s left pieces of himself all over Beck’s apartment. “Got it?”

“Alright.”

“Say you got it.”

“I got it.” Beck smiles, and it’s unbalanced and yet charming in the worst way.

“So, make it count,” Peter snaps to cover-up the sudden rush of heat to his face and, because he doesn’t know when to stop, adds, “and make it good.”

He turns before he has to be faced with Beck’s reaction, whatever that may be. Probably shaking with sadistic delight, and because their definition of good is clearly different, he’s probably not gonna be able to sit down for a week.

But it’s the last time.

Peter steps out of his briefs, stands completely naked and exposed. He feels oddly vulnerable, which is strange and not ideal. Vulnerability isn’t going to let him keep the upper hand here. Plus, he was naked just earlier today, for the most part, and that went…well, it went spectacularly off the rails, didn’t it?

Okay, so maybe he has reason to be a _little _nervous.

“Just…” Beck says quietly, no further instructions as he guides Peter to crawl on the springy couch, and then hesitantly maneuvers him to drape over the arm. “That okay?”

“Kinda hurts,” he mumbles. Peter shifts a bit, feeling something painful dig into his ribs. The couch itself is worn and soft but the arm doesn’t provide much comfort.

“Here.” Beck takes care of easing him back and wedges a throw pillow between Peter and the armrest. “Is that better?”

In a normal circumstance, the attention to his comfort might have flattered him—but here? Now? It just feels like teasing. All the pain is easier to take when Beck’s being an asshole. This kind and gentle act doesn’t hold up well. Peter knows the truth; he just doesn’t want anything to distract from the pain that _he’s_ going to inflict. That’s all.

“Who cares,” Peter says bitterly. “You’re just gonna hurt me anyway.”

Behind him, the cushions dip and Beck settles himself between Peter’s awkwardly spread thighs. “Is that what you think this is? Am I just hurting you?”

Fuck him for sounding so genuinely curious. Like he doesn’t know. “Yeah—I mean, this stopped being punishment a long time ago.”

Truth is, he’s still not sure it ever really was.

Beck’s hands find his hips, giving him a little squeeze. Peter thinks he hears him mumble something, but he can’t make it out, not with all the blood rushing to his head. He just needs Beck to do it. Hurry it up.

Peter arches his back, steadies his knees so that hopefully he looks enticing enough to smack. Time to get the show on the road. Then he leaves. Then it’s over.

Peter’s stomach flips. “Hurry. Come on.”

Beck doesn’t smack him though; he traces a bruise that Peter knows has blossomed on his left cheek because he can still feel the dull ache when he sits. He closes his eyes and braces himself. That one is gonna hurt if Beck goes for it.

But Beck leans forward and kisses the bruise gingerly. Peter almost sobs.

_What?_

Another kiss, and another, and another until a tear finally slips out along with a broken, choked sound.

“Please,” Peter says weakly. He doesn’t know what’s worse. The physical brutality of being spanked to tears, or the mental brutality of being kissed to them?

“Please,” Beck parrots, not unkindly. It doesn’t sound like mockery but like a question. Like he wants to know what Peter is asking for. “Peter—”

“Don’t say my name,” Peter grits out. “Don’t.”

“What do you want?” Beck asks quietly, his mouth moving against Peter’s skin with each word. How dare he ask that now.

“Just make me feel—” Peter pauses and squeezes his eyes shut tight to keep the tears from escaping. Make him feel what? Good? Bad? It’s never mattered before. He sighs, defeated, and whispers, “I don’t know, just make me feel something.”

“Okay.”

And that’s it.

Beck trades his lips for his hands, but still, a smack doesn’t come. He, instead, kneads Peter gently, but with just enough pressure to make it sting. That’s better. That— _that _Peter can work with. Beck runs his hands up and down, to the small of his back and down the flank of his thighs and back up again. He grabs two handfuls of Peter’s ass and lets both thumbs run along the center, pulling him apart—

“What? _Ahhh_, oh my god.”

Beck’s tongue presses flat against him in a long, tentative lick.

“Beck, what—” Peter whimpers, and despite himself and his confusion, he rocks back into the warm, wet press of Beck’s mouth. He should be embarrassed. He should be _mortified_, but god, that’s…good. Really good. “Yeah, keep—keep doing that.”

Beck answers with a tight grip and muffled moan buried against him.

He’d said to make it count, right? He’d said to make him feel something. At least Beck is holding his end of the bargain because this is unlike anything he’s ever felt. And there’s no pretending anymore, everything is out on the table. No more thin excuses for whatever this is.

Beck wants him and Peter hates him, but there’s a tongue working him open, and all he can think about is how he wants Beck too.

He only comes up for breath and the occasional lick or bite against Peter’s cheek. The fingers digging into his old bruises barely register as painful. Beck’s moaning against him like he can’t get enough, and Peter’s so hard he’s seeing stars.

And he doesn’t know the protocol for this. Usually, their routine is linear that Peter knows exactly when Beck wants him to jerk off, but this is unfamiliar grounds for them both. So, he takes Beck’s tongue and occasionally his teeth, and holds off for as long as he can. Until his cock aches too much for him to ignore and he has to shove a hand between his legs to get ahold of himself. Fuck. He’s so overstimulated, just his fingers around the base have his body tensing up.

“Beck,” Peter pants, and he isn’t even sure why. He doesn’t need permission, and yet— “Beck, can I—?”

Beck makes a choked sound in response, and that’s good enough for him. It doesn’t take long, just a few strokes, and Peter unravels. He curses under his breath, coming straight over his fist and onto the arm of the couch. Part of him gets a weird satisfaction in knowing that Beck will have to clean it up later. And knowing that he’ll always remember that Peter was there.

That this had been real.

Beck places one last lick to him, sloppy and unrefined, and Peter slumps against the couch in a daze, vision a little blurry as he returns to Earth. He listens to the harsh breaths behind him and the squeak of springy cushions as Beck sits back. Then he hears a zipper and shortly after that, a groan.

Peter thinks, distantly, that he should be scared. But he’s too blissed out to properly assess the situation, and Beck’s never actually made him touch it before. Actually, he’s never seen Beck’s dick beyond a bulge in his pants, and even then, Beck’s never taken the countless opportunities to even touch _that_.

Maybe he’s scared?

“Do what you want,” Peter mumbles, face still pressed into the armrest. He feels boneless, weightless, and he’s not gonna budge anytime soon. Not until Beck physically kicks him out, which honestly might be sooner than later.

Whatever. He’ll let Beck jerk off on him if he wants. Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him. It might even be kinda hot.

Nothing prepares him for the instant burn and stretch of Beck’s cock bullying its way inside. It lasts for a second, just enough time for Peter’s breath to be punched right from his lungs. But then Beck pulls out, making a sound angling closer to a sob than a moan, and Peter feels something warm hit his thigh.

The moment his brain catches up with what happens, Peter spins around, scrambling back on the sofa and kicking out. There’s a dull, fiery ache between his legs— and an even sharper pain in his chest.

“What the fuck?” Peter cries out and kicks again. Shit. He just wants Beck to get the fuck away from him. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Beck, the sorry fucking bastard, slinks off the couch, onto the floor and his face doesn’t even crack. It’s stuck in a permanent state of shock like he can’t process what just happened either. He stares, horrified, between Peter’s legs, at the evidence dripping down his inner thigh.

“Peter, I—” Beck lifts his eyes, mouth quivering. “_Peter—_”

Peter smacks him hard across the cheek with an open palm. The force of it snaps Beck’s head to the side, and when Peter pulls his hand away, cradling it to his chest, there’s already a red welp forming.

“I told you not to say my name,” Peter says, voice cracking and shaking.

Beck turns his gaze back to him slowly. His eyes are redder than his cheek and just as watery as Peter’s feel. He looks like a goddamn mess. Good. Because he is a mess. He’s a giant fucking train-wreck and why, _why_ did he have to drag him into this?

“Do it again.”

Peter recoils, blinks. “W—what?”

“Hit me,” Beck says. He squares his shoulders and clenches his jaw. “Hit me.”

Fine.

Peter slaps him and Beck asks for another.

And Peter gives it to him again, and again, and again.

And Beck just takes, and takes, and takes.

It’s like they tripped and fell through the looking glass, and nothing is as it seems and yeah, it’s mad. It’s really fucking mad. What’s worse is Peter can’t tell where the sobs are even coming from. Him, or Beck? Both, he reasons. Somehow.

“I can’t,” Peter says weakly. “Don’t make me do it again.”

Beck’s big, blue eyes find him, and he just looks so damn distraught that for a moment, Peter forgets that _he’s_ the one that’s just been violated. That _he’s_ the one that just had something taken from him by a man that doesn’t care.

Peter isn’t sure what he’s expecting, maybe an apology, but all Beck says is— _“Go.”_

He barely remembers running home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI PLEASE LOOK AT THIS AMAZING ART!!
> 
> https://twitter.com/curlygingerbird/status/1194055636478316545?s=21
> 
> I don’t know how to embed images!! I’m sorry!!!

Peter slams his door so hard the frame rattles and the old lady in the apartment beneath them hits her ceiling in rebuttal. She’ll probably stop May in the lobby next time she sees her and complains. Fuck. He doesn’t even care. He has so much more to worry about.

_So much._

He paces his room, back and forth, kicking the piles of laundry scattered about. It’s not until he reaches up and grabs two fistfuls of his hair and tugs, that Peter realizes he left his hat behind at Beck’s apartment.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. The first thing he’s said since leaving Beck’s apartment. He sounds hoarse from crying the entire subway ride home. A lady had even given up her seat for him, probably thinking some girl had broken his poor, pathetic heart.

But, no.

“Shit,” Peter says again. Louder. “Shit.”

He kicks his door, and the echoing answer of a broom on a ceiling comes shortly after. Peter winces for it and sighs, feeling the anger boil and bubble in his chest. It’s not her fault, he reminds himself. He’s the one stomping around like a damn elephant. This building is old, and Ms. Hayes is like, a hundred years older. Honestly, he’s surprised she can even hear him.

Peter kneels on the ground and shouts, “I’m sorry!”

There’s no acknowledgment, not like he expects there to be, but once he’s on the floor, he lays down against the cool hardwood. It isn’t comfortable, not in the least bit. His body is stiff and aching, and he swears that there are bruises on his bruises. There’s still a tenderness between his legs. It’d only been a second, but Peter remembers the burn and stretch of Beck’s cock. It lingers there. That feeling. That memory.

He rolls to his side and draws his knees up to his chest.

Fuck.

How did he let this happen? And, well, that’s the meat of it, isn’t it? He _let _it happen. Hell, he invited it to happen. He had shown up and all but begged for it. Beck had warned him. Told him to leave. What had Peter gone and done? He spread his legs and said, _“Do what you want.”_

Why had he said it like that? It’s no wonder that Beck thought he meant— _No._

No sane person would see that as an invitation, he reasons. Peter’s no expert, but he knows that there’s more to it than just sticking it in. Did Beck _not_ watch porn? He tries not to think of a more realistic explanation. That Beck just doesn’t care about his comfort. That pillow act was just for the show. Those soft touches…

Everything is a lie.

“How was school?”

Peter pushes the green beans around on his plate and doesn’t look up. “Fine.”

“Fine?” May asks. She sets her fork down and folds her hands under her chin, watching him over her gold-rimmed glasses. “Mrs. Hayes said you came back, stomping around.”

Shit.

Panic rises in his chest. Beck’s face flashes in his mind, and he can’t help the upset feeling. He’s angry at the entire situation. At Beck. At Mrs. Hayes.

At _himself._

“Just tell her to turn down her hearing aids,” Peter says, a little harsher than intended. He means for it to be a joke, but god, he doesn’t feel like laughing. He just wants to sink into the floor.

“Peter,” May chastises him, but there’s a slight quirk of her mouth. She wants to laugh. But he sees the concern there too, where her brows knit together and the smile dissolves into her worrying her lip. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Tears prick at his eyes. He wants to tell her, but he can’t. Not now. “Yeah, it’s just, you know. School.”

“Is someone _bullying_ you?” She says it so intensely, like it’s a dirty word, and Peter can’t help but sputter.

“Oh my god, no.”

Well, yeah. _Kinda._ But not in the same way that she’s thinking. It’s not being shoved in a locker or being tripped on the way to the bus. No, it’s way worse. But it would be easy to blame this all on someone like Flash Thompson just being a dick if Peter wanted to even remotely give him the satisfaction.

“Is it just…” May trails off, but her thoughts are written all over her face. They don’t talk about it. They aren’t going to talk about, especially now. She schools her face, and asks, “Do you want to switch schools?”

Peter thinks about it for a second. Leaving Midtown would solve so many latent problems. The ideology that no longer matches his own, the money May is funneling into private education. Beck. It’s childish, he knows, but this was the school Uncle Ben had gone to, the one he had wanted Peter to go to as well. Now he’s gone, and well, Peter can’t bring himself to leave.

“No,” Peter sighs, smiles, and lies. “It’s just some dumb papers I need to write. I’m letting it get to me.”

“Okay. If you’re sure,” May says. He can’t tell if she believes him, but she must believe him enough because she goes back to cutting her chicken. Then, as if it only just occurred to her, says brightly, “Oh, I’m off this Sunday.”

It’s been so long since they’ve had a full day off together, Peter can’t help but brighten up. He needs this. “We should have a movie marathon! Ned said he would put me back a copy of Return of the Jedi. Then we can watch them all—”

“I was thinking we could go to church together,” May cuts in. Peter tries not to visibly deflate. He’s gotten out of how many Sunday services because of her schedule? More than he can count. May sees his disappointment anyway. “Then we can watch whatever you want.”

“Oh,” Peter manages a weak smile. “Yeah, cool. Sure.”

“Plus, I haven’t met this new priest everyone has been talking about. What is it? Father—”

“Beck.” His fist curls around his knife, and he’s forced to set it down to stop the tremor in his hand.

“Word on the street is that he’s handsome,” May whispers, raising her eyebrows and smiling like she’s gossiping with the girls. “Young too.”

Peter feels like he’s going to be sick. He stands, too fast, and picks up his plate. He keeps his back to May; he can’t imagine how she’s looking at him. But he can’t sit here and gab about Beck with his aunt. He can’t just spout off niceties about the bastard without remembering how Beck pressed him against the wall. How Beck’s mouth felt. How he begged for more and got it.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles. “I’m not feeling great. I think I’m gonna head to bed.”

May frowns but nods and lets him go.

Thankfully the tears wait until his door is shut.

He tries to fake sick, but it doesn’t work. He’s never been a great liar, and even his recent experience with keeping dangerous secrets doesn’t make up for the fact that May knows exactly when he’s trying to play hooky.

So, he ends up getting dressed in his Sunday clothes that haven’t seen anywhere but the back of a closet in months. Just a white button-up and navy slacks and one of Uncle Ben’s old ties. Not far off from his school uniform, really. He combs and gels his hair and for a moment, things feel almost normal again.

Except that feeling in his gut, knowing he’s going to have to sit and watch and listen to Beck drone on as he stands knee-deep in hypocrisy and no one is the wiser. It’s that same feeling he got at Coney Island, when he reached the peak of the rollercoaster, waiting for the drop.

He’s always waiting for the drop.

And now he sits on an uncomfortable pew, shoved between his aunt and an old lady doused in way too much perfume, while Beck charms every lady in the audience with his broad smile and white teeth. No one but Peter knows how sharp they really are.

That doesn’t stop the whispers and speculation though. Peter rolls his eyes, listening to the hushed exchange of a couple of ladies in the row ahead of them. Leaned into each other and giggling from behind their hands, commenting on Beck’s _ungodly_ level of attractiveness.

Yeah, Peter thinks, that’s not the only thing ungodly about him.

He’s not jealous. He’s not. But he imagines an alternate reality where he leans in and tells them that they’re barking up the wrong tree. They aren’t Beck’s type.

Peter knows his type.

Intimately.

Peter barely hears a word he says, but he knows the moment Beck sees him in the congregation because he stumbles on his words and quickly makes sure to direct his gaze elsewhere. What a dick. Yeah, _don’t make eye-contact with your teenage plaything, unless you want everyone in the fucking building to know how you got that red mark on your cheek._

It seems to last forever, but once the service closes, Peter can’t stand fast enough. He needs to get out of there. Far away from Beck, because damn if watching him lecture didn’t bring back more pleasant memories. He can only watch those big hands wave around for so long before he’s reminded of the tender sting of them on his ass.

“Pete.” May catches his arm. “Why don’t you go to confessional?”

Peter blanches. “What?”

“I get that you don’t want to tell me everything, that’s alright,” she whispers, thankfully, because these people are nosey as hell. “But maybe you can tell Father Beck what’s eating at you. It might make you feel better.”

“Oh,” Peter says dumbly. He can’t tell her that’s the problem. That Father Beck is what’s eating at him. Eating him whole. Swallowing him up. He doesn’t want to do that, but he can’t tell her that either. “Okay. Good idea.”

Bad idea.

Peter sees Beck’s silhouette beyond the partition and his heart sinks. He thought he had a grip on this, on the situation. What a joke. He never has. Beck’s always been pulling the strings. Even now as he sits unsuspectingly on the other side of the booth.

He drops into the seat.

“Forgive me, Father,” Peter says, making sure to wring every bit of loathing out with it. “For I have—”

_“Peter.”_

Peter slams his hand against the side of the booth, the slap of his palm echoes. He doesn’t give a shit who heard.

“Mr. Parker,” Beck tries again. “I don’t think this is appropriate.”

Peter laughs and leans against the partition, hooking his fingertips through the grate. “You’re joking, right?”

“Does it sound like I’m joking?”

No, not really. Peter sighs and rests his head against the screen, lets his hand fall. He’d come here for a fight, with plans to tell Beck off. But he can see the way Beck’s clenching his fist and bouncing his leg. He can see the way Beck refuses to look at him, and Peter’s forced to stare at that perfect profile.

_The devil was beautiful._

“Do you want to hear my sins, Father?” Peter asks quietly, biting at his bottom lip.

“I think that’s enough,” Beck says, but he’s inching closer.

“Are you sure?” Peter makes it obvious enough that he’s going to continue regardless. There’s something about the barrier that makes him feel bold. Like Beck can’t reach him, and God can’t either. This is confession, and fuck, he’s going to come clean. “Because you see there’s this guy—”

“Mr. Parker,” Beck’s voice cuts him off, deep and throaty. He’s right there, face against the screen. Peter can feel the heat of his breath, and it makes his stomach roll.

“He likes to put his hands on me—”

“Stop.”

Like hell he’s gonna stop. It’s not like he was shown the same courtesy.

“He likes to touch me.”

That gets him a growl, but, if Peter’s being honest, it just spurs him on. He pulls himself up until he’s nose-to-nose with Beck, staring him down in a challenge. What’s he gonna do? Not shit. He can’t help the anger and bile that rises to the back of his throat now. He can’t help the adrenaline that pumps through his veins at the sight of Beck so visibly shaken.

“He likes to put his mouth on me—”

“This isn’t about _him_,” Beck snaps. There’s that fury seeping through. “This is about you. So, do you have anything you want to confess, Mr. Parker?”

“I was getting there,” Peter mumbles, feeling as his hold on the reins of the situation goes slack.

“Do you like it?”

Peter jerks back. “What?”

“Do you like it when he does these things?” Beck asks, watching him with dark eyes. There’s the slightest flash of tongue when he runs it along his teeth.

“I—” Peter searches for the answer. It’s not that simple. It’s not that cut and dry. Surely Beck knows that, or else he wouldn’t be pretending this were about anyone but him. “I did.”

“Did?”

“Yeah,” Peter says a little defensively. “I did. Past tense.”

A stagnant silence falls between them, the melancholy thickness of it nearly palatable. Peter squirms on the uncomfortable bench, keeps himself twisted to lean against the grate. He can’t tear his eyes away from the fraught look in Beck’s eyes, where he also hangs his head, pressed so close to Peter’s own. Maybe this is what remorse looks like.

Peter asks, “Did you?”

“Did I what?” Beck’s playing stupid.

“Did you like it?”

Peter’s pretty sure he knows the answer. That’s why they kept doing it, right? That’s why Beck lost control and pushed in, came on his thighs. Even Peter doesn’t get off _that_ fast. But he remembers how he asked if Beck wanted him, how he was snubbed for a proper answer. Beck can’t even say it.

Not even now.

“Say it,” Peter hisses. “Tell me you liked it.”

“No—”

“No?” Peter laughs, near hysteric. “You’ve been torturing me for weeks now, man. You keep getting me off. You—” He pauses. He can’t say it. Not the truth. “You took something from me. No, actually. You took a lot of things from me.”

“I can’t give them back,” Beck says, defeated.

That isn’t what Peter wants to hear, but what can he possibly say? Sorry isn’t exactly going to cut it. Sorry might make it worse.

No, Peter just wants the petty satisfaction that will come with knowing that Beck wants him. That, at least his virginity and sanity weren’t stolen by someone who can’t even admit what or who he wants. Will it make it hurt less? Probably not. He needs it though. Desperately.

“Why’d you do it then?” Peter asks, and his voice wobbles. Shit. He sniffs back the tears. “Why’d you have to take it there?”

_Why’d you have to make me want you so bad?_

_Why’d you have to _take?

Beck finally speaks, “I don’t know.”

It’s alarmingly underwhelming, and Peter pushes back his essential dread to make room for the anger. He feels like he’s always switching between the two.

“You _do_ know,” Peter says from between clenched teeth. From this close, he can see the faint bruise on Beck’s cheekbone, blossoming right beneath a lone freckle. Those big, wet eyes. Something clicks into place and Peter blinks in revelation. “You’re just a coward.”

Beck can’t even deny it and, for the first time, Peter feels nothing but pity.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH! This is really late and I'm so sorry! I've literally been playing Pokemon until my eyes bleed. But! I come offering an update. :') Also, I just wanna say thank you to the response of this fic. Warms my heart! Thanks for being patient, even if this is a shorter transitional chapter! <3

When Peter was a child, his Uncle Ben took him to a haunted house. It was a neighborhood event, in some abandoned warehouse, and honestly, looking back, pretty lame. Cheesy décor, fog machines, an old Halloween sound effects cassette playing on repeat. That didn’t change the fact that, like a scared little kid, Peter was terrified of every poorly slapped together costume and loud noise.

He doesn’t remember, but Aunt May tells the story often. About how he’d cried so hard at an actor in a werewolf mask that the guy had to bend down and pull it off. How he had to show Peter that he was human underneath.

And how things weren’t so scary after that.

As Peter lays in his bed, staring at the old, childhood glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to his ceiling, he thinks that maybe that’s what’s happening now. He’s pulled the mask off the monster and now he can barely remember the fear. He can barely remember anything other than profound pity.

It doesn’t…it doesn’t change things. It doesn’t mean that Beck was right to do what he did—or, any of it. He’s still a monster, but maybe Peter is starting to get a better understanding of what made him. He gets it, he does. The world doesn’t like people like them. The _church_ doesn’t like people like them. But that doesn’t give Beck the excuse to take advantage of him.

Peter swallows and sits up, chest tight with the realization that he did the same thing.

He had taken advantage too, hadn’t he? He got something out of their meetings, something he couldn’t get anywhere else. It isn’t like tons of boys his age are chomping at the bit to get their hands in each other’s pants. Hell, no one even knows he likes boys— men?

Yeah. He definitely likes men.

Big men. Broad shoulders. Men with dark hair and unreadable expressions with hands that span his ass and waist. Men with soft, low voices telling him that he’s good.

Peter eases back into the blankets, letting his eyes fall shut. He tries to picture a faceless man as he slips his hand beneath the waistband of his pajamas. He tries to picture a faceless man as he works himself fully hard. He tries to picture a faceless man as he bites his lips, stifling back whimpers, and strokes.

He _tries_.

But it’s still Beck’s face he sees when he comes.

Shit.

“Peter. What are you doing?”

“Are you going to let me in or not?”

Beck doesn’t budge. Okay, so that’s a no. Peter wedges himself in the door, the same as last time, despite the look of horror on Beck’s face. Yeah, he may feel sorry for the guy, but that doesn’t mean he gets a pass. There’s no feeling remorse now after he’s brought it this far.

Beck puts up little resistance. He’s dressed in his casualwear again, which never fails to jar Peter. A soft gray tee shirt fits him better than that stuffy clergy frock anyway. He looks more approachable. Not that means anything good. Peter knows he shouldn’t approach.

Fuck, he still remembers what happened last time he dared to.

Beck looks at him, wide-eyed, as Peter slings off his denim jacket and places it neatly on the coatrack.

“What are you doing?” Beck repeats.

“I left my hat here.” It’s a flimsy excuse, and not even a good one. But it holds enough merit that Beck doesn’t question him on it. He does, however, eye the coat now hanging by his door. Peter stumbles. “You keep it like a furnace in here.”

Beck grabs it off the hook and shoves it to his chest. “You aren’t staying. I’ll get your hat.”

“Hey!” Peter watches as Beck turns and heads toward— _wherever_. He doesn’t exactly know the layout of the guy’s house. He’s only ever seen the living room, and more intimately, the couch. “Hey, don’t you think we should talk about this?”

Beck hovers by the archway that leads to what looks like a long hall now. He barely even turns. “There’s nothing to talk about, kid.”

_Kid?_

Peter bristles and makes his way across the living room, grabbing a handful of the back of Beck’s shirt to stop him. He seems startled, for a moment, before turning around and jerking his way out of Peter’s grasp.

That’s better, Peter thinks. _Look at me._

And look at him, Beck does. His eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches, and fuck, Peter lets his eyes drop to Beck’s hands then, balled into tight fists at his sides. Oh. He’s about ten seconds from losing his cool, and absurdly Peter _wants_ him to.

“Is that what you think I am?”

Beck blinks. “What?”

“Do you think I’m just some stupid kid?” Peter can’t help it. He shoves at Beck’s chest, sending him stumbling back against the wall. He advances, presses himself against that solid body if just to keep him from running. It’s weird to think that not so long ago, Beck had him in this exact position.

“Peter—”

Peter rises on his tip-toes, gets right in Beck’s face, effectively shutting him up. “Because I’m not. I’m not something for you to toy with all the damn time.”

“I know—”

“Hey,” Peter growls and snatches Beck by his collar. “I’m not done here.”

There’s a moment of clarity where he realizes that Beck could end this right now. End him, even. He’s bigger. Stronger. He’s got the brute strength to sling Peter clear across the room and back, and yet he’s letting Peter toss him around like an old ragdoll.

God, Beck must really hate himself.

“Look, I get it okay,” Peter continues with a soft sigh. “It’s not easy for people like us.”

“Like us?” Beck asks, face twisting up in confusion.

Holy shit. Is he not picking up what Peter’s putting down?

“Yeah,” Peter shrugs and drops his gaze down between them, where their bodies are pressed together. Where he already feels Beck firming up in his stonewash jeans. “You know.”

Beck licks his lips, runs his tongue along his sharp canines and he homes in on Peter. But then, in an instant, that predatory look vanishes, and his eyes widen comically large. He pushes Peter back, and yeah, okay, there’s that strength Peter knows him to have.

The distance between them turns deafening.

“There is no us,” Beck says with a note of finality.

Oh.

Peter can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry. After all this? After everything that Beck has put him through, he wants to pull _that_ card?

Laugh, he decides. Because it’s funny, isn’t it? This whole thing is just one, big cosmic joke and he’s the punchline. Or, maybe Beck is the punchline, standing against the wall with labored breaths like he ran a marathon.

“What are you laughing at?” Beck bites out, harsh.

He’d say he doesn’t know, but he does. Peter’s fit tapers, and he wipes at his eye and fixes Beck with a cold stare. “You.”

Beck falters. “What?”

“I was right. You’re just a coward,” Peter says, stepping forward. He doesn’t have it in him to be scared, though he should be. He should be fucking terrified with the way Beck grits his teeth, the way he’s so disheveled that his combed-back hair falls forward. He’s unraveling and Peter’s just yanking at the thread.

He prods a finger into Beck’s chest. “You can’t even admit what you want.”

“Oh? I can’t?” Beck growls out. He reaches up, snatches Peter’s wrist in a painful grip, tight enough to make him grunt a stumble in confidence. “What about you? You didn’t come here for a hat.”

Peter narrows his eyes.

No, he didn’t. But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything.

“What do you want, Mr. Parker?” Beck says in a low voice, the one that never fails to send a shiver down Peter’s spine. His face darkens, and just like that, it’s no longer the same Beck that stands in front of him. A switch flips.

That’s fine.

Father Beck gives him what he needs.

“You know what I want,” Peter whispers and holds his breath as Beck’s eyes dilate. And it’s not what he wants, rather, what he needs, but he’ll never admit that to him. He’ll never let Beck know that he needs this twisted thing between them. That he craves it.

“Give it to me,” Peter demands, fists the front of his shirt and drags him closer. “If you can.”

“Not here.”

“Oh,” Peter says and nervously looks to the hall. Visions, fantasies, of being pressed into Beck’s bed flashes through his mind and he swallows. “The bedroom, then?”

Beck’s eyes go wide, or wider. They’re always so big, so haunted. He gestures around the room. “No—No, I mean, not _here._”

It clicks, Peter thinks, what Beck is trying to say. What he’s implying.

“At school?”

“It’s safer,” Beck sighs.

And, if Peter didn’t know any better, he’d call him insane. Touching your student at school is about as far away from safe as you can get, but he gets it. That unspoken fear. Here, in Beck’s living room, there are no bars, no rules. Just a lawless wasteland where Beck can’t seem to reel himself in.

_Remember what happened last time_, Beck’s face seems to say.

Peter nods. He gets it. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t get his hat back. He ends up awkwardly adjusting the semi in his pants and puttering around, making uncomfortable small talk while he cools down enough to leave. Beck stays a respectable distance away, hands shaking, and eyes refusing to make any sort of contact. Like if he wanders too close, he’ll cross the flimsy boundary they just established.

Peter decides not to push anymore. He’s already shoved them to the edge, both of them just teetering there on the cusp of falling into a pit they can’t climb out of.

But here, at school, behind the locked door of Beck’s office— Peter finds himself laid across Beck’s lap, pants to his ankles, getting spanked within an inch of his life while he bites at his knuckles to keep from being too loud.

Each slap sends him deeper into that quiet place in his mind, the place where none of this exists. Not his dead uncle, not his overworked aunt, not confusing sexual preferences, not his fucked-up priest who is sending him there.

Just quiet and numbing pain that he begs for.

So, maybe they’re already here in the pit. Who knows anymore?

Beck never does anything he doesn’t ask for. They go back to their old routine of Beck’s hands on him. Sometimes Peter grinds against his leg like last time, but mostly he just jerks off while Beck watches. It’s weird to think that things have gone back to _normal_ when Beck gets him off for the third time that week.

But normal is relative, right?

_“There is no us.”_

But there is, and this is it.

It’s Peter finding an excuse to crawl back to Beck’s office. It’s Beck calling him there.

It’s Peter stopping by Beck’s place on his way home from school because he can’t stomach going home to an empty apartment with a sore ass. Maybe he’s done some research in the back of the adult section at the public library and picked up a thing or two. And if sitting on the far end of Beck’s couch while sitcom reruns play in the background is as close to aftercare as he can get? Well, Peter will take it.

But Beck’s always on edge when he’s there. Skittish, like a feral cat—but he doesn’t bare his fangs anymore. He doesn’t touch, and he doesn’t attempt to. That’s for their sessions at school where the high risk of being caught keeps a close chain on his actions. Because Beck’s a bomb always threatening to go off, and Peter realizes, now, that he was only ever the spark to ignite him.

Sometimes Peter wants to.

He’ll put his feet on the couch, smile innocently when Beck looks at him with curious eyes. They’ll stay there for a while, but by the end of whatever episode of Family Ties they’re watching rolls around, Peter has his toes digging into the side of Beck’s warm thigh.

Sometimes Peter wants to be touched in a different way.

Sometimes Peter wants to be held, caressed, kissed.

But the only touch he gets is Beck gently clasping his ankle to push him away until they’re alone again in Beck’s office and Peter’s got his teeth pressed into the soft leather of his belt.

It’s only natural that things go sideways once he gets in a groove.

Because that’s the Peter Parker experience, isn’t it? He thinks he’s got a handle on something, only for things to go wildly off the rails. How could this be any exception when all he’s been struggling to hold onto the reins since this whole thing started?

May is sitting on the couch when he gets home from school. There’s a cup of hot tea steaming on the coffee table, but her hands are folded politely in her lap. Peter knows she can’t see the bruises dotting his thighs, but he swears her glasses are giving her laser-vision because that look on her face tells him that she knows something is up.

“Hey,” Peter tries for cheery. “I didn’t know you’d be home.”

“We need to talk.”

Peter swallows hard and his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach.

_Fuck._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this is way late! I'm sorry! Things are gonna probably be a little slower coming out until I'm done with this semester...just a little bit more. Thank you all for your comments. They mean the world to me. I didn't mean this chapter to turn into 4k, but here we are. I edited pretty quickly so I apologize for any mistakes. Thank you!

Peter always knew this would all have to come to an end. It’s just, he kinda pictured it on his own terms.

He slinks his backpack from his shoulders and hangs it on the coat hook on the wall with a lot more care than necessary. Anything to keep his hands occupied and from shaking. The floor already feels like it dropped from beneath him.

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“I think you should sit down.”

Shit. Okay, keep calm.

His legs move on autopilot as he makes his way to the couch, his body tingling with anticipation and dread as he sits down and sinks into the cushions. He wishes they’d just swallow him up. God, if she knows—if she knows, he has to remember she might not know anything at all. This might be okay.

“You look a little nervous,” she says pointedly. God, he almost forgot how scary she is when she’s mad.

And, oh, she’s definitely mad.

Peter tries to laugh and ends up swallowing a shaky chuckle. “You’re kinda freaking me out.”

May turns where she sits, her body facing him, rigid and stiff. She places her hands atop her knees, one crossed over the other, and looks down over the rim of her glasses. It seems like forever that she lets him stew in his sweat and nerves before she finally clears her throat.

Thank god.

“I ran into one of your teachers today at the store,” May tells him. Okay, so they’re playing this game. She wants Peter to spill the beans on his own.

That’s dangerous.

“Oh,” he squeaks. “What did they say?”

May frowns at him and shakes her head, but then that frown dissolves into something resembling sympathy and she sighs. Peter loves her, but she was never much good at playing bad cop. “She said that you’ve been spending a lot of time in Father Beck’s office.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Oh.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’ve been getting into so much trouble?”

_Oh. _

It’s not exactly relief that he feels, but it certainly is a lot less heavy than the original fear. May just thinks he’s causing trouble, a little teenage rebellion. She has _no_ idea. But still, that’s not a good look and she might be gentle, but he knows she won’t hesitate to ground him the rest of the school year.

“I’m not in trouble,” Peter lies. It almost surprises him how easy it is. “I’ve just been helping Father Beck with some filings. You know, boring documents and stuff.”

Visible relief washes over May and she places a delicate hand to her chest, huffing out a light laugh. “Oh, thank god. You know, I thought it was strange the school hadn’t contacted me about your behavior if that was the case. I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “I think I just assumed the worst. You’ve been so distant lately.”

“I know,” Peter sighs, scooting closer and leaning his head on her shoulder so she can peck a gentle kiss to his forehead. He feels like shit for lying, and even worse for making her worry. “I’ve just been busy.”

“I know. So have I.”

Yeah. He’s barely seen her. At least he has Halloween to look forward to. That means a night in, leaving out a bowl on the stoop and watching scary movies uninterrupted while gorging themselves on convenient store candy.

“At least we have this weekend.”

May pulls back a little, frowning. “Oh, Peter,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

His stomach turns for the umpteenth time. “What?”

“They really need me at the hospital this weekend. A double. I’m sorry—”

“Hey,” Peter shushes her, trying his best to smile through his disappointment. “Hey, it’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry,” May says again.

“I know.” He does. She does her best to provide for them, and sometimes she has to make sacrifices. He gets it.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, May,” Peter says cheekily, nudging her with his elbow. “I’m a big kid. I think I can handle a Halloween alone.”

Not that he’s planning on spending it alone.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promises, “but I mean—you’re okay, right?”

Peter frowns.

“Just, in general?”

Is he? Okay might not be the word for it, but he’s better. Yeah.

“Promise.”

May smiles, pulling him into a side-hug, kissing the crown of his head until he is forced to dramatically protest and wiggle away. Things feel normal, for just a moment, but Peter realizes quickly what this all means.

He’s _gotta_ end it.

But maybe it can be gradual. Like weening a baby off a bottle.

Peter shows up Beck’s doorstep in a hockey mask with a VHS tucked under his arm. When the door opens, he nearly chokes, lifting the mask away slowly to take in the sight before him. Beck, wrapped in a black cape, hair gelled back and—

“Are those plastic teeth?”

They are. Beck hurriedly spits them out into the palm of his hand. “Peter—”

“Oh my god, man.”

“It’s Halloween,” Beck hisses. He sounds more embarrassed than mad. And, well, dressed like a drugstore Dracula, he probably should be. “I thought you were a trick-or-treater.”

Peter smiles. “Why? You got some treats for me?”

“No,” Beck deadpans, even as he steps aside to let him in.

“Huh,” Peter sighs, eyeing the bowl on the small writing table that typically holds mountains of junk mail. He grabs a handful and shoves it in his jacket pocket before his grin turns wicked. “Okay. Got any tricks then?”

Beck points to the door. “I can make you disappear.”

“Right,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t act like you’re not happy to see me.”

“I—” Beck snaps his mouth shut, but the corners quiver like they want to give it. Like they want to shout whatever he’s thinking, tired of holding back. For one terrible moment, Peter thinks that Beck might admit it, but then his eyes fall to the VHS. “What’s that?”

“Oh.” Peter pulls the raggedy copy of Friday the 13th from beneath his arm and waves it around. “You said you hadn’t seen it and I thought, well, maybe we could watch it together.”

He doesn’t know why he feels nervous all of a sudden. They’ve watched a ton of television together. They’ve done things more intimate than watching a dumb horror flick. Still, it feels strange to be standing at the door, bouncing from foot to foot, and waiting patiently for his offer to be either accepted or declined. Feels like he’s just asked a girl to prom.

“Don’t you have plans with your friends?” Beck asks, finally breaking the silence. It’s not a rejection. Not when he’s guiding Peter into the living room. “Parties? Getting into trouble? Things that teenagers do.”

Peter figures he can get into all the trouble in the world here. He shrugs, handing Beck the tape and shrugging off his jacket, toeing off his sneakers, and plopping down on the couch a little closer to the middle than he would normally venture. There’s a fat chance that Beck’s gonna allow it, but maybe if he’s subtle he’ll at least get the chance to soak up some of that body warmth.

“Nah,” Peter sighs. “They’re all too old for Halloween.”

Not exactly true. Teenagers love Halloween, mostly as an excuse to host a big party, steal their parent's booze and cause a little chaos. Which, it isn’t like that doesn’t seem interesting to him. He just isn’t cool enough to get invited to them.

“Aren’t you?” Beck counters, nodding his head in his direction, thick eyebrows raised in something almost playful.

Peter reaches up to touch the mask still pushed back on his head and flushes. “Good question. Aren’t _you_?”

Beck ignores him and pops the movie in the VHS player, and it whirls and a staticky image warps on the screen somewhere toward the end because Peter forgot the golden rule— _be kind, rewind. _He can’t hide that curl to his mouth though. Beck likes it when he’s bratty, something his aunt used to call him when he threw tantrums as a little kid. It holds a different meaning here though, between them. Usually ends with Peter bent over a knee.

But not here, _here._

Not in Beck’s home.

But— Peter chews his bottom lip and watches Beck patiently rewind the movie to the beginning. But, maybe they should. He hadn’t wanted to break the news just yet. Kinda wanted to selfishly soak up a nice night before he tore it all down.

How to even put it? Better to rip the bandage off, he supposes. That’s just how it goes.

“Hey,” Peter blurts out. “I think my aunt is catching on to us.”

Beck freezes, hand falling limply from the VCR. His head turns quickly, eyes wide with the same kind of horror, existential dread, that Peter’s been feeling for days. In three quick steps, Beck is there, on his knees at Peter’s feet, steadying a shaky hand low and safe on his thigh.

“What?” That’s the only thing that comes out of his mouth, and it sounds more like a croak than a word.

“Yeah,” Peter swallows and lets his eyes drop to Beck’s hand, where suddenly the only thing he can process are those thick fingers burning through his denim. There’s a thin layer of hair on his knuckles. Nice hands. He tentatively places his own over them. “I think I’ve got it taken care of.”

The unspoken _for now_ lingers between them.

“What happened?” Beck’s thumb starts a slow circle on Peter’s leg, and his eyes run a trail up the length of it. “Did she see…?”

Did she see the claims Beck has laid all over his body? Peter shakes his head. “No. Just— someone mentioned I was spending a lot of time in your office. She was upset, she thought I kept getting into trouble. But I told her I was just helping you file some documents. I think she believed me.”

Beck’s frown deepens. “You shouldn’t lie.”

“I can’t exactly tell her the truth,” Peter says, an exasperated laugh following suit.

“No, I know. That’s not what I meant.” Beck sighs and tries to pull his hand away, but Peter stops it with a curl of his fingers. “I meant that you shouldn’t _have_ to lie.”

But he does have to. He might always have to.

“You’re right,” Peter agrees because he _does_. He fucking hates lying to May, and also, he’s not any good at it. If he keeps it up, they’ll get caught.

“We should stop,” Beck mumbles.

They have to stop, need to stop, but god, he just isn’t sure he has it in him too. There’s been chance, after chance, after chance and they always end up right here. Beck breaks Peter’s hold on his hand but doesn’t pull away. He presses down into the meat of Peter’s leg and inches his touch up his thigh.

Peter lets his legs fall open, and his breathing grows shallow the closer Beck’s fingers get to his fly. He watches, lip tucked painfully between his teeth like Beck’s a scared rabbit and if he makes a sudden move, a sudden noise, it will send him fleeing.

He can’t help but break. _“Please.”_

Beck jerks his hand away. Shit. There he goes. “Sorry—”

“No. Wait,” he corrects, reaching out and grabbing Beck by the wrist. In the background, the movie stops rewinding, clicks on and starts up deafening loud, but not loud enough to damped Beck’s quick intake of breath. “I wasn’t saying stop.”

“This is dangerous.”

Peter nods. He knows. “Yeah.”

“We can’t keep this up,” Beck whispers but lets Peter guide him back up until he hovers over the tent in his jeans. He looks up, already wrecked, already sweating. “Peter, we can’t—”

“Not at school,” Peter counters. God, Beck’s hand is so close. If he just lifts his hips a little then he could feel that warm palm right on his dick— and yeah, just thought of it has him throbbing. “Not at school. Just—just…”

Peter presses Beck’s hand down and he can’t tell who gasps the loudest. “Just here, okay?”

Beck lets out a shaky breath. He’s the one that had made the rule. He’s the one that said this thing between them had to exist within the walls of the school and the church. But he’s also the one that’s squeezing and mapping the hard outline of Peter’s dick through the rough denim.

“Oh my god.” Peter melts back into the couch, and he really wishes he could watch the way Beck studies him with a quiet intensity; the way he studies every movement like he’s never done this before, which he hasn’t. He’s _never_ used his hands like this. It makes it hard for Peter to keep his eyes focused any one thing and he winds up dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Oh god, holy shit—”

Beck kneads insistently with the heel of his palm and shushes him through clenched teeth.

Oh? He wants him to be quiet. Normally that’s not much of a problem. There isn’t any other option but to bite on knuckles and belts and keep his whimpers to a low hum when they’re in Beck’s office. But here? No one will be able to hear him over the television or through the old, sturdy, concrete walls.

Peter decides to press his luck. He doesn’t hold back his next moan, or the breathy curse that follows. It earns him a hard squeeze to his cock, and when he looks down between his legs, he finds Beck near trembling.

And damn, _damn_ that handsome bastard. It’s probably the hottest thing he’s ever seen, not that he has a large portfolio. Not that most of the steamy visuals filed in the back of his head aren’t Beck.

“Don’t stop,” Peter whimpers when Beck’s hand stills, bucking his hips against him. Holy shit. If he stops, Peter might _actually_ die. “Don’t stop, please.”

Beck runs his finger in a hard line over the length of Peter’s cock straining against his fly, slips between the buttons to skirt over the thin cotton of his briefs, the touch electric, and Peter jumps, dislodging his hand. It’s too much. It’s good but too much. The memory of what happened last time his clothes were shed still lingers fresh in the back of his mind and even though Peter wants this—god, does he want it—he isn’t ready to put himself so directly in the line of fire.

As if reading his mind, Beck nods in understanding and says, “You don’t have to take them off.”

He wants to. Almost. Beck hasn’t crossed any lines that Peter hasn’t pushed him over since then. He’s been well-behaved, too well-behaved. Probably a lot of tension building and bubbling under that skin. Yeah, Peter wants it— but he’s scared too.

But he can’t say that and ruin the mood.

“M’close,” Peter tells him, eye hooded and lips swollen and red from biting them. He rolls his hips, hoping it looks enticing enough to keep him going, or maybe coax out some dirty talk. Beck’s no stranger to it, but usually, it’s just praise for taking his lashings so well, but Peter has a secret weapon sure to rile Beck up—

“Come on. Please, sir.”

He nearly arches right out of his seat, fingernails scraping along the fabric of the couch in a feeble attempt to grasp at something, anything. Beck’s ministrations return full force, with more vigor and intensity than before. He’s rubbing Peter off with purpose and determination and oh, it has him gasping for breath.

“How’s that feel?” Beck asks, unhinged and breathy. “Huh? Does it feel good?”

Peter manages a whine and a choked sob as he spreads his legs wider, stretching the denim tight over his aching cock while Beck’s hand grinds against him in quick, wild movements. Like he’s just as desperate for Peter to get off.

How the fuck did this happen? They were supposed to be stopping this. They’d nearly been caught. But Beck causes some adverse reaction to his cognitive function the moment they occupy the same space.

“Tell me,” Beck bites off, and Peter realizes he’s done nothing but pant and moan.

“G—good. It’s good,” he finally manages. Bit of an understatement. “It’s so good. Oh god, Beck. I’m almost there.”

Beck looks near manic. “Yeah? Come on, Pete.”

That shouldn’t have the effect it does. Peter doubles forward, his hands flying to grasp at Beck’s shoulders, squeezing as Beck clumsily works him through his orgasm. He feels boneless but, more than that, he’s left feeling a little hollow. Never, in all their escapades, has he needed so badly to be held—and if Beck’s face is anything to go by, he just might be vulnerable enough to do it.

Peter slides to the floor and onto his knees, sandwiched right between the couch and Beck’s thighs.

“Hey, can you just— please,” Peter chokes. He doesn’t know how to ask for it, but right as the insecurity and fear begin to settle, Beck pulls him close. His body melds perfectly against that broad, heaving chest, and it’s the last place in the world he should feel safe, but he does. Peter buries his nose against Beck’s collarbone and breathes in. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Beck whispers into his hair, hands roaming up his back to rub small, hesitant circles. “Don’t’ mention it.”

Peter has a feeling he means that.

That doesn’t mean he can’t relish in this new position. He’s wiggled between Beck’s splayed thighs, slumped against his chest, still steadying himself on his shoulders. Beck has always been a solid guy, what little Peter has felt, mostly in moments of brute strength to manhandle him over something. But here, leaned against him, it’s more apparent than ever. He’s got muscle and a lot of it.

Peter rubs his head against Beck. Purrs like a cat when he gets a whiff of that familiar cologne. “You smell good.”

Really good. That scent used to turn his stomach. The thought of just being here in Beck’s house, in Beck’s arms, used to turn his stomach too. Distantly, he wonders when that changed. He can’t dwell on it too long, because the hands on his back move down to hold his hips, touch morphing from gentle to possessive.

Oh.

Beck is hard, and in his post-orgasm daze, Peter is only just now realizing. In hindsight, he should have known. But there no mistaking it now— that’s Beck cock, thick as always, pressing up against him. It’s not so scary like this, with layers of clothes between them. And Peter knows it can still feel good, he got off in his pants just moments ago.

The stage is all set. Peter trails his hand down Beck’s chest slowly. Beck sucks in a breath, tenses, but doesn’t stop him. In the background, an unfortunate camper gets rammed with a machete and there’s a blood-curdling scream ripping through the living room.

It’s all very romantic, in their own sort of messed-up way.

“Let me,” Peter whispers. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for, but he’s never had the chance to return the favor. Not counting _that_ time. Peter can’t count that time. Scared as he is, he knows one thing is true— “I want to.”

He wants to touch him. He wants Beck to let him.

“Pete,” Beck whispers. It’s not a no. He leans back, taking his hands with him, and Peter falls forward to follow. “I can’t—”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he assures Beck.

Peter no longer wants this. He _needs_ this. Beck needs it too, he can tell. He can tell that Beck needs to know that they can toe the line without crossing it again. He needs to know he can control himself. And Peter is willing to put himself in the line of fire one more time just to prove it. This isn’t like the first time. Beck isn’t barking orders and bending him over. He’s letting Peter touch, and fuck. His head is so goddamn confused. This doesn’t make any of this right. It doesn’t make it _okay_.

His fingers, moving at the pace of molasses, finally hit the cold metal of Beck’s buckle and freeze. For a moment, the world exists in a state of suspension. Just the two of them staring and faces close. Peter can feel warm breaths on his lips, and he breaks their eye contact in favor of dropping his gaze to Beck’s lips.

He swallows.

“Okay, ‘m gonna do it now,” Peter says, not really knowing who the warning is for. Not really knowing _what_ it’s for either because, holy shit, he wants to kiss him.

Beck nods, eyes round as dinner plates. He looks about ten years younger, just as fraught and nervous as Peter feels. Almost like he’s leaning into someone just a little older, maybe another senior, or his secret college-aged boyfriend. Not someone a decade older. Not his fucking priest.

Whatever. He doesn’t care. He’s going to see how far Beck will let him take it—he’s been the first in everything else. Why not this too?

Peter licks his lips, slightly chapped from the cold walk over. His hand is still steady on Beck’s belt. Tilts his head just a little, leans in closer—

The doorbell rings and the spell, whatever it is, breaks.

“Shit,” Peter hisses and scrambles off Beck’s lap, pressing himself up against the couch. “Shit. Sorry—”

For a split, horrifying second, Peter imagines May on the other side of that door. Maybe she hadn’t believed him. Maybe she’d followed him here, lied about her Halloween double shit. They’re caught. Fuck. He’s going to be in so much trouble. Beck is going to go to jail. No, prison. Fuck. _Fuck._

Beck touches Peter’s knee gently. “It’s probably just some neighborhood kids.”

Oh. Yeah, right. The tension washes out, leaving him to slump back with a tiny breath. Halloween, duh. He’d been so caught up in— Peter licks his lips and watches Beck stand awkwardly, a little stiff in the pants— caught up in _that._

“Probably,” Peter mutters.

Beck adjusts himself and straightens his stupid cape, fishing in his pocket. And Peter’s heart swells with something, something he can’t name, as he watches this grown-ass man pop a plastic set of vampire teeth into his mouth. He frets for a moment and wraps the cape dramatically around his front to hide his still very prominent hard-on.

Peter bites back a snicker. “Go get ‘em, Dracula.”

Beck rolls his eyes and snatches the bowl of candy from the table, leaving Peter alone to watch his retreating back. There’s a chorus of tiny voices and a few giggles and Peter listens as Beck does his absolute best to talk with a mouthful of plastic. It’s all very endearing, he can hear the enamored mother’s coos and giggles, but Peter can’t help but wonder what they would say if they knew a seventeen-year-old boy was just on his lap.

He frowns, almost feeling guilty for that errant thought, no matter how true it is.

“Your aunt lets you watch this?”

Peter snaps his head up to see Beck standing in the middle of the living room, bowl still in hand, staring at the television with a raised eyebrow. It’s somewhere in the middle, probably closer to the end. “Yeah, it’s a tradition.”

“So, why aren’t you watching it with her?”

“She had to work.”

“I’m sorry,” Beck frowns, and damnit, he sounds sincere. “Does she work often?”

“Kinda has to. Midtown isn’t exactly cheap, and it’s just her.” Peter shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not while he still has the ghost of a kiss that never happened lingering on his lips. It takes everything in him not to press his fingers to them.

Beck nods and doesn’t pry. “Should I rewind the movie?”

“Nah,” Peter says, scooting over and patting the ground. “This is the good part anyway.”

The girl on the screen would probably beg to differ, but Beck doesn’t protest and comes to sit down next to Peter. He leaves a respectable distance but hey, Peter feels a little bold. But, before he can scoot closer, Beck places the candy bowl between them.

Right.

There’s _always_ something between them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient! I'm out of school until January and plan on finishing this up! :')

“Did you always wanna be a priest?”

Beck looks over his shoulder and the click of a knife against the cutting board stops abruptly. The entire kitchen smells like onions— strong, overpowering, enough to make Peter’s eyes sting. It feels almost strange for them to water over something other than Beck’s hand against him.

He studies Peter for a moment before returning diligently to his dinner preparation duties.

“Of course,” he says, a bit strained. It doesn’t sound very convincing. Perhaps not even to himself because his shoulders slump just a little, a tiny shake to his head. “No, not always.”

Peter perks up at that—the _truth_. Such a rare thing with him but Peter feels he’s been growing more and more successful in his endeavors to weasel bits and pieces of it out. But, who knows, maybe Beck feels less vulnerable with a knife in his hand.

“Yeah?” Peter asks. “What’d Quentin Beck want to be when he was a kid?”

Beck goes still, shaking slightly, with no real clarity whether it’s from humor or tension. He doesn’t like being called Quentin, and Peter’s learned that the hard way. He’s got the bruises to prove it, not that he particularly minds. It’s just one more piece of arsenal tucked away that he can use to get exactly what he wants when Beck’s being too stubborn to give it. It’s just one more bullet that Beck can later make him put between his teeth.

A carefully placed _“Quentin”_ could have his pants around his ankles in seconds

But that’s not what he’s doing here today. Not right now.

Beck scrapes the freshly cut onions into a hot pan, and they sizzle and pop, bringing Peter right back down to reality. That’s fine. He always likes it when Beck cooks dinner for him. Maybe even more so than the other stuff they do. It’s _nice_— which, is a word that rarely describes the thing that exists between them.

“A chef?” Peter needles.

“No.”

“A pro-wrestler?”

“What?” Beck turns, eyebrow raised. _“No.”_

“Look,” Peter sighs and shrugs. “You’ve got the body.”

“Do you want to eat or not?”

Peter smirks and rests his head in the palm of his hand, taking the time to ogle without shame because, holy shit, Beck has back and arm muscles for days. He watches him work, moving so fluidly So easily. So calm and natural, and human in a way that’s always been difficult for Peter to parse when it comes to Beck. He looks good. Never mind that Beck had just confessed earlier that week to being self-conscious about the slight softness around his middle. It’s not like he’s allowed to _touch, _even if he wants to. But, still, he thinks Beck looks good like this. Healthy.

And, sometimes, in the right lighting, he looks happy too.

“Fine. You win.”

“I know.” Beck’s back is to him, but he can practically hear the grin.

“God, you’re such an ass,” Peter teases with no real malice, even if it just so happens to be tinged with some truth. He likes this, the banter. It’s easier to process than the really heavy stuff.

That comes later.

But he _knows_ it’s not easier for Beck. In many ways, Peter feels it might even be worse. He sees glimpses of reciprocation here and there, fleeting moments where it doesn’t matter if what they’re doing makes any sense, mainly because they both know that it doesn’t and probably never will. Oases where their conversations ebb and flow naturally, organically, and Peter doesn’t have to wonder what any of this means— if it means anything at all.

_He_ likes it, but nothing makes Beck shut down quicker than the feeling of the riff closing between them.

It isn’t until half-way through their meal that Beck answers him, _really_ answers him. They haven’t said much, just some pleasantries here and there. Peter, of course, thanks him for the food ten times, and then ten more times. Beck has gotten into the habit of asking when May will be home and if the answer is late or nothing more than a shrug—well, Peter ends up with something like this.

A hot, homecooked meal, with Beck sitting across from him, picking at his food like a baby bird.

This time, Beck aggressively stabs a spear of asparagus and says out of seemingly nowhere, “I wanted to be an actor.”

Peter nearly chokes. “An actor?”

“Don’t laugh.”

That might be a bit hard, so Peter doesn’t make any promises. Instead, he sets down his fork and gives Beck his undivided attention. “An actor,” he repeats. “Like on stage? Television? Movies?”

“Yeah,” Beck says a bit uneasy. “All of them. Then I wanted to direct—make my own movies, tell my own stories.”

Peter stares, awestruck. He never knew. Never could have even guessed, but he sees it now. Beck’s so handsome, and not just in that classical, old Hollywood sense. He’s got those big eyes, long nose, a smile that’s always just a little bit crooked. And Peter loves the way his lips quirk at the edges, always, even when he’s upset. The big screen would have loved it too.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Pipe dreams, kid.” Beck laughs down at his lap, shaking his head. “Plus, I wasn’t any good at it and— the church is where I belonged.”

_Belonged._

Past tense. Peter frowns and can’t help himself from saying, “I don’t think so.”

Because he doesn’t think that. Not in the slightest.

“It’s where I needed to be,” Beck bites back. But, just like before, it doesn’t sound believable, and Peter wonders just how long Beck has been telling himself this particular lie. Because that’s what it is— another lie, atop a lie, atop a lie.

Neither of them belong there. 

It seems like forever ago that Peter had Beck against the wall, trying to connect, trying to reach out.

_“It’s not easy for people like us.”_

Beck didn’t like hearing it then, and he sure as hell isn’t gonna like hearing it now, so Peter stays quiet and pushes his food around with his fork. He’s not angling for another fight, not when things have been bordering good between them. Not when he’s so damn close to cracking through Beck’s tough exterior. Peter knows there’s a gentleness in there, he can see it, feel it, when Beck’s hands go soft on his thighs. He’s willing to wait it out if he has too.

Peter knows, deep down, that there’s no slapping a Band-Aid on whatever it is that’s broken in Beck, but maybe he can help to shed the apprehension that plagues him. That same apprehension that stops Beck at the last second, every time, and prevents him from letting Peter reciprocate in a physical or emotional sense.

Peter knows, deep down, that there’s no saving Beck.

But god, he wants to try.

The best course of action is not to call his bluff. Peter has that much figured out. Beck is the kind of man that likes to keep his shoddy illusion of control, and perhaps at one point he had a handle, but Peter knows the truth now. He’s calling the shots. A power trip, for sure, but he’s determined to use it as a learning opportunity— that with power comes responsibility and it’s easy not to abuse it.

Or, he thought as much.

But sitting side-by-side on Beck’s couch, pressed together with Beck’s arm slung along the back while he allows Peter to settle into his side? He kinda wants to see how far he can take it all. Wants to see how far he can push, push, push until they both tumble.

Peter doesn’t focus much on the television, he keeps his head on Beck’s shoulder, sneaking glances upward to admire the strong jaw close enough to graze the tip of his crooked nose. Close enough to press a kiss too, if he wanted to cut their evening short because that, no doubt, would get him kicked straight to the curb.

He tries to imagine a younger Beck, even younger than himself— nine or ten, just a kid— wanting to be an actor on the big screen.

A teenage Beck behind a camera, snapping pictures.

A lonely Beck writing scripts.

God, how did he end up here, getting choked by the clergy collar around his neck?

“Hey,” Peter says, voice nearly a hoarse whisper. He licks his lips and pulls away because the temptation to run his tongue along the underside of Beck’s jaw is almost too strong to resist. “My uncle left me a camcorder when he passed.”

Beck barely looks at him, continues biting at his thumbnail. “Oh?”

“Yeah. He used to take home movies with it. I mean, it’s old but still in decent shape.”

Beck turns then, tearing his hand away from his mouth and dropping it against the armrest, a frown tugging at his lips. “Are you wanting to watch your old home movies?”

“What?” Peter gasps, then laughs in something more akin to horror than humor. “Oh my god, no. That’s— just _no._ Are you serious?”

“Might be fun,” Beck says quietly and— oh god, the bastard is _smiling_. “I bet you were a cute kid.”

_I’m still a kid_, Peter wants to say but he can’t help but feel like that might ruin the mood—flustered or not. So, instead, he reaches across the couch and snatches up one of Beck’s awful, mismatched throw pillows and decks him square in the face.

No one can see him blush if they have a face full of orange corduroy. Right?

But then, Beck laughs, honest to god laughs. Not the forced kind that he usually gives. Not the nervous, frustrated one. A genuine low, throaty laugh. The sound of it throws Peter off so much he freezes, the edge of the pillow gripped tightly in his hand, mouth agape, providing the perfect opportunity for retaliation. His impromptu weapon is snatched from his fingers and there isn’t even time to blink before it’s colliding with his cheek.

“Hey—”

“You started this, Parker.”

Another playful strike of the pillow and the only reason Beck succeeds is because of the innate response that being called by his last name now evokes. He manages to wrestle back the control on the next incoming.

“Yeah, well,” Peter huffs, ever articulate. Ends up weaseling himself closer until he’s straddling Beck’s lap, bearing down on him to shove the cushion right into his stupid, handsome face. “Gonna finish it too.”

There was a time, not so long ago, that Peter might have meant it. He’s spent his fair share of sleepless nights fantasizing about wringing the life right from Beck. Everything seems so distant now. The hatred, insomnia, the anger. Beck still makes him angry, sure—kinda hard not to. The guy is infuriating, even on his best days. But now the urges to put his hands around Beck’s throat are accompanied by something else.

Something far more dangerous.

Want. Need. Desire.

He wants to be here, on Beck’s lap. In Beck’s house.

He wants to feel Beck’s hands as they grab ahold of his waist, keeping him grounded as he shoves the pillow harder to muffle the laughs that sound so good that he could cry. Maybe he should just kill him because he isn’t supposed to want this. Wouldn’t all this be easier? If Beck just disappeared?

But then Beck gives his sides a little squeeze and Peter decides— _no_, it wouldn’t be easier.

It’d be really hard.

Oh, fuck.

_Fuck._

From beneath him, Beck makes a noise that sort of sounds like a word, and Peter slowly pulls the pillow away to reveal a very disheveled, red-faced Beck.

Beck holds up his hands. “Mercy.”

Peter swallows down the fresh taste of abject horror and realization, schools his face into something normal. Whatever normal is these days. Yeah, mercy would be nice.

But when did Peter ever get any goddamn mercy?

Beck’s laughter trickles away, and the world flips upside-down. This isn’t how it goes. This isn’t the script. It’s supposed to be Beck that’s apprehensive and skittish. When did their roles reverse?

Beck’s eyes narrow and he goes quietly still. The hands circling Peter’s hips move up only to frame his ribcage. He feels oddly small under Beck’s touch, under the wide spread of his fingers. These moments are rare between them, when they spend a silent second to look at each other. Peter wonders what Beck sees right now. A catalyst for both of their darker, taboo desires?

A stupid little kid?

He wishes he could pinpoint the shift between them. When did he go from wanting to strangle him to wanting to kiss him, to be kissed by him? To wanting to feel Peter’s hands on him like they are now, not striking him hard enough to sting and bruise?

Peter forgets why he even brought up the camcorder.

Peter forgets why he grabbed that pillow.

Forgets why he even started this game.

He feels his chest tighten, his throat closing like he’s the one being strangled. Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But now what? What now that it has? Peter does the only thing he can think of and that is to grab Beck’s face with both hands. It startles them both, the boldness of it, and Beck’s eyes ask it all.

_What are you going to do next?_

He doesn’t know.

Out of everything he’s thinking and feeling, Peter angles Beck’s head up and says— “You’re the worst.”

Beck’s concern frown morphs into a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Looks like they’re back to that. He reaches up and wraps his fingers around Peter’s wrist but doesn’t pull him awake. He keeps him there.

“I know,” Beck says softly. For once, Peter thinks he might actually, truly, be aware of all the damage he’s done. But he’s still smiling.

Why is he still smiling?

“I hate you,” Peter lies.

“I know.”

“Do you?” Beck’s hands are still on his wrist and Peter is still fixed on his lap, knees on either side of the soft middle he’s been complaining about. Peter can’t find anything to complain about though. He feels so good beneath him.

“If you don’t, you should.”

“Oh.” Something flutters in Peter’s chest. “What if I said that I don’t?”

Beck blinks, pursing his lips before shaking his head. “I’d say you’re not that stupid.”

But he is, isn’t he? Because he doesn’t hate Beck, and Beck is right. He should. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t. Fuck. He _doesn’t._

Peter swallows hard, leaning down to knock their foreheads together. His thumbs rub along Beck’s smooth jaw. The strong, woodsy scent of his cologne wafts around them with each heave of his chest, making Peter’s head go light and dizzy—and he’s still overtly aware of that he’s on top of Beck. He’s not yet ready to relinquish that control.

“I am,” Peter whispers.

And he’s about five seconds away from doing something to prove just how stupid he is when Beck turns his head to the side. “Get up.”

“What?” Peter groans. “C’mon, man. I’m sorry, I wasn’t gonna—”

“You’re sitting on my bladder,” Beck says, effectively cutting the tension and clearing out all the smoke clouding Peter’s judgment.

“Oh, shit,” he fumbles, scrambling back and off Beck’s lap. “I’m sorry.”

Beck groans when he stands, a little stiff. Tense. Half of Peter suspects it was just an excuse to get a little distance—and okay, yeah, he can’t blame him for that. Things were getting weirdly intimate, skating that line they’ve drawn in the sand.

That _keeps_ happening.

Peter keeps wanting more and more, and the memory of what happened last time he asked for more gets further away from his conscious. The blaring sirens are so distant now, he struggles to remember why they’re going off at all.

He’s left on the couch to himself, knees huddled to his chest on the far end, away from the spot still warm from their bodies. Time passes by too slowly, or too quickly—he can never really tell anymore—but somewhere right before his conscious drifts away from his body, Beck comes back to linger in the archway that separates the living room and hallway.

“So— what was the deal with the camcorder?”

Ah. It feels stupid now. Peter shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “I was thinking we could make a movie.”

Beck’s eyebrow rises. “A movie?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “You know, like to give you a chance to do something you’ve always wanted to do.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry, forget it. It’s stupid anyway.”

Fuck. Is his face red? It’s definitely red. His whole damn body feels like it’s on fire with embarrassment and his own audacity. Beck is a grown-ass man, not his school buddy. They aren’t two kids looking for a weekend project— and the last thing Peter needs is Beck realizing that they really do come from different worlds.

“No,” Beck assures him. Pity, that’s the look on his face. “It isn’t stupid. I just— I think that ship has sailed.”

“Yeah,” Peter says weakly.

The room goes quiet, and Beck leans back against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest. Man, what Peter wouldn’t give to be snuggled up beneath them. But that’s not them, apparently. That’s not who they are. He needs to realize that.

“But, Peter,” Beck says, so quietly he almost misses it. “You’ve already done that.”

“What?”

It feels like Beck moves in slow motion sweep across the room. His gait remains steady, sure in a way he typically isn’t unless they’re playing their games. They aren’t playing now though. The hand that usually strikes him into a state of euphoria comes to rest on his head, Beck’s fingers carding and weaving themselves through Peter’s curls.

He melts right into it.

“You’ve already given me a chance for something I’ve always wanted, kid.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: alcohol / excessive drinking

“Beck?” Peter calls. He gives a couple more knocks after his first attempt brings nothing and presses his ear to the door to listen. “You home?”

The answer is probably no. Beck has a life outside of school and their nights together, right? Probably. Not that he’s ever really seen the evidence. If he’s being honest, Beck is kinda a recluse. On top of that, they had plans and Peter distinctly remembers making them, and even though Beck is a lot of things, he isn’t the type to stand him up.

Which is why he can’t shake the feeling something is wrong.

There’s a spare key underneath the mat and Peter waits until the coast is clear to bend down and retrieve it. It feels weird barging in Beck’s apartment but, if he’s out, Peter can just watch some television and kick back until he’s home. And if something _is _amiss— well, wouldn’t Beck _want_ him to help?

“Hello?” The first thing Peter notices is the smell, it hits him like a wave the moment he opens the door. Soured and unsettlingly familiar. “Ah, shit,” he mumbles and kicks an empty bottle across the floor.

Beck is home, physically— but, he’s out cold on the couch and Peter knows the poor guy probably can’t tell up from down or left from right. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey hanging loose in the hand dangling off the couch, fingers just barely grasping onto the neck keeping it upright.

“Shit,” Peter repeats. “What’d you do, huh?”

Beck, surprisingly, makes a noise, but whether or not that noise is human is another story. Peter squats down and gently plucks the bottle from his hands, checking the contents with a sniff that makes his nose scrunch up. It’s cheap and potent, and Peter half considers taking a swing because, Jesus Christ, what a mess.

“Can you sit up?” He gets little more than a groan in response. Dumb question. “Okay, just lay there. I’ll be back.”

Peter leaves Beck there on the couch and goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water and a cool rag. He moves on autopilot, by now he knows where most things are located, even if he as to search a bit to find a smaller waste can that he sits on the floor next to Beck’s head in the event he gets sick. Honestly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t yet. It’ll come though. It always does. The glass of water goes on the coffee table and the rag is laid across his sweaty forehead.

“Better?”

Beck hums, a pained sound, and reaches up to touch the cloth, brows creasing in a frown when he pulls damp fingers away.

“I don’t know if it really helps,” Peter tells him, taking a seat on the floor next to him, “May used to like it though. Kinda like when you’re sick and you try to cool off. I guess it’s relaxing.”

“Thanks,” Beck croaks, dry and hoarse, “I— thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem. Glad to see you can still talk.”

Peter doesn’t get anything in return, but he doesn’t expect it. Beck’s eyes have fallen shut again, and his breathing slows to a steady pace. Out again, and probably will be for a while. Peter stares at Beck, at the shape of his face, the scruffy beard that he’s only just now noticed has filled in more and more, the fan of his dark lashes on his cheek; and Peter tries to figure out what in the hell caused a priest to go on a bender.

Okay, maybe he has _some_ ideas.

It’s not like Beck is the typical priest—or, at least he hopes he isn’t. Peter knows that this…thing, whatever it is between them, started fucked up. And that’s not to say it isn’t still fucked up. Actually, there is a good chance it might even be _more_ fucked up.

“You can’t drink like that,” Peter tells an unconscious Beck. He props an elbow on the edge of the couch and rests his head in his palm, just slowing watching the slight rise and fall of his chest on the off chance it stops. “It’ll kill your liver, and then, you know, kill you. Believe it or not, I don’t actually want you to die.”

Nothing. And Peter doesn’t know why he keeps talking, but he does.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Peter laughs to himself, stops, blinks, and sighs dramatically, “I’m really pissed you weren’t awake for that joke.”

Okay, poor joke. Really poor joke—but he can’t help that’s the only way he can process that day anymore. It’s too painful to remember clearly, not when Beck’s never done it again. Not when he only touches when Peter asks and asks and asks. Dark humor, that’s healthy, right? He read that in a magazine, he’s pretty sure. Beck might not find it funny though. Or, would he laugh?

“Do you even have a sense of humor?”

Peter realizes he doesn’t know. He tries to think back to moments when Beck seemed happiest. There are always small, private smiles, and sometimes he’ll chuckle at some corny sitcom joke, but mostly Beck stays somber. The pillow fight seems to be an outlier and therefore, does it count?

“Whatever, we’ll change that. I’ll rent us some stand-up when you’re feeling up to it. Ned said they got some really good ones last week. How does that sound?” Peter sighs, looks at Beck’s slack mouth and listens to his only response— quiet snores.

Oh well.

He goes on to tell Beck about his day since he knows he would ask, he always does. Classes are fine, mostly he’s just bored and waiting for summer. They haven’t talked much about what happens when Peter graduates, or when he leaves for college, but he figures that’s a conversation for when Beck is upright and awake. Maybe Beck will want him to call, or maybe he won’t—and it’s weird for him not to know which scenario he prefers.

He thinks maybe the one where Beck wants to keep in touch.

Peter frowns and leans his head on Beck’s thigh. He’s so warm and soft in sleep, untroubled by all those demons that Peter knows he shares a body with. He’s seen them; but here and now, they’re sleeping too, drank into a stupor just like Beck.

“What are we doing?” Peter whispers and then groans, burying his face into Beck’s leg. “Jesus Christ, what am _I_ doing?”

He doesn’t know. Beck has humiliated him. He’s violated him. He’s hurt him, both physically and mentally. He’s left bruises on his skin and in his heart. He’s done things that he’ll never be able to forgive or forget.

But Beck, well, he’s treated him good too. Those moments where Beck lets his guard down and spends empty hours with gentle touches and kind words. He gives Peter a quiet place to go when the world is too noisy— even when that place is his own head when Beck bends him over his knee. And sometimes Peter feels like he’s the only one in the world that’s _really_ listening to him, or that he’s the only one who really _sees_ him.

And Peter knows that he cares, deep down, and he thinks that maybe Beck knows it too.

He feels a weight on his head, in his hair, and Peter recognizes that touch. Lifting his head just a little, he can see Beck’s eyes, open and bleary, looking down at him with a strange, soft expression. “What are you doing?”

Peter rises and Beck’s hand falls from his tangle of hair. He shuffles forward, suddenly aware that he’d been laying with his head in Beck’s lap for way too long. “Nothing, I was just—I was just checking on you.”

“You should go,” Beck says, but he doesn’t sound angry or upset, just embarrassed.

“Okay, yeah,” Peter agrees; licking his lips, staring at the tired, purple bags beneath Beck’s eyes. He looks like a fucking train wreck, then he glances around the living room and realizes it does too. “Let me clean up a little and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Peter, you don’t—”

“I know. I don’t _have_ to do anything,” Peter says with a roll of his eyes and a playful smile. Then, softer and much quieter, “I want to.”

He stands before Beck can protest anymore, snatching up the half-empty bottle and the empty one that he’d kicked across the floor when he first arrived. In the kitchen, he dumps out the rest of the whiskey straight into the sink and tosses them in the trash. Then, because he just has a feeling, Peter searches all the cabinets until he finds an unopened bottle. That goes down the drain too, in loud glugs that he knows Beck hears.

By the time he’s in the living room again, Beck’s eyes are closed, but the water on the coffee table is empty, and Peter can tell by the way his face is pinched tight that he hasn’t fallen back asleep. Still, he moves quietly and tidies up the papers strewn across the floor, the chunks of glass from a broken mug, the desk chair that’s somehow overturned halfway across the room from where it’s supposed to be.

Lastly, he comes to stand by Beck, who cracks one eye open and looks up at him.

“I can stay.”

“No,” Beck croaks out, shaking his head. “You don’t need to see this.”

Peter shrugs. “It’s no big deal. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Beck’s eyes narrow like he wants to ask but doesn’t. Probably for the best, and Peter can’t deny he’s grateful for it. He’s not in much of a mood to talk about Uncle Ben, or his death, or how it affected May the following months.

She’s better now and, maybe, one day Beck will be too.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, “don’t mention it.”

Beck gives a weak but genuine smile, and Peter’s stomach can’t stop itself from flipping. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, unsure of what to do next. To be fair, there isn’t exactly a protocol for situations like this. Does he leave now? Does he stay?

“Want me to help you get to bed? That couch can’t be good for you back.”

“I got it,” Beck slurs, waving Peter off, but it becomes very apparent, very quickly that he doesn’t have it at all. He’s upright all of five seconds before falling back on his ass. He groans and grabs his head, and Peter toes the waste can a little closer. Just in case.

“You sure about that?”

“I’ll just stay here.”

“No, just— Jesus Christ, Beck. Let me help you,” Peter snaps. He can’t understand why he’s being so stubborn, so resistant. But then Beck looks up from his hands and he just looks so fucking helpless that Peter’s heart can’t help but break. “Please,” he adds softly, extending a hand.

Beck stares like Peter’s grown a second head. Though with how much whiskey he’s drunk, it’s likely that’s what he sees. After a moment of thought, he takes Peter’s offer and Peter makes only a _tiny_ noise of triumph and helps to haul him to his feet. Beck sways and Peter quickly gets an arm around his shoulders to steady the weight.

“You good?” Peter asks, only to get an affirmative grumble. Or, maybe it’s a protest. Who knows? The sudden shift in equilibrium seems to have knocked some of the coherency from him. “Alright, let’s get you to bed.”

Getting to Beck’s bedroom is a struggle, but he can walk for the most part and can give vague directions and that’s good enough. The room is decorated like the rest of the place— generic and boring. Seriously, would it kill him to have a painting? A photo? Yet, still, Peter looks around and soaks it in because it’s new territory and who knows when Beck will allow him back in.

“Okay, can you lay down?”

Beck deposits himself on the bed and sprawls on top of the dark comforter, covering his face with his hands. Peter hasn’t ever been drunk himself, but he imagines the room is spinning like a carnival ride right about now.

“Need anything? Water? Something to eat? Medicine?” Peter asks. Beck mumbles something beneath his hand, and Peter steps closer to get a better listen. “What?”

“C’mere.”

“Oh,” Peter swallows. He’s already to the edge of the bed. Does Beck want him to…? He puts one knee on the mattress and Beck lolls his head to the side, dropping his hand and reaching out. Peter takes it.

“Stay,” Beck whispers. “Just a little longer?”

“Okay,” Peter says, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. He allows himself to be pulled on the bed, then pulled again to fit in the crook beneath Beck’s arm.

“This alright?”

Is it? Peter thinks about it for a moment. Beck is warm, but he’s drunk. He’s got an arm wrapped around him, holding him close like he might disappear, or worse, _run_. But beneath the stench of whiskey is that familiar scent of his cologne, and strangely, it’s comforting.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

And it is.

Peter only wishes it weren’t also an outlier moment in a timeline full of Beck pushing him away. He takes what he can get though, what he selfishly wants, what he knows he shouldn’t. Because, yeah, maybe good isn’t the word for whatever this is, but it feels right.

He works his way closer against Beck’s body, staring where his chest rises with each breath. Peter reaches out, places a hand there, and feels a warmth spread through him.

“Hey,” Peter whispers, “are you okay?”

“Hmm? My head—”

“No,” Peter sits up, propping himself on his elbow. Beck looks up at him, confused, or in pain, or maybe a little of both. “I mean—are you okay? No one drinks that much when they’re fine.”

Beck only blinks at him, before he finally sighs, defeated, and turns his head. Peter wants to grab it, force it back, but he keeps those urges controlled. If Beck can’t look at him for this, that’s fine. Whatever he needs.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says finally.

“You can try.”

“No, Pete. You don’t understand,” Beck says with another sigh.

Peter bites back his frustration, trying to be patient. “Okay, I can try though. But you have to tell me what’s going on. You have to trust me. Hey— Beck. Will you just look at me?”

When he does, Peter almost regrets it. He looks absolutely shattered. Maybe the red around his eyes can be blamed on the alcohol, maybe so can the unshed tears. Then again, maybe not. Shit.

“I want to help,” Peter says softly.

“I know you do,” Beck whispers back. The smile he gives him is sad when he reaches out to place a hand on Peter’s cheek, one Peter tries desperately not to lean into.

And he fails. Miserably.

Peter turns his face against Beck’s palm and kisses. “Let me,” he whispers against it.

He thinks, for a moment, what it might be like for Beck to agree. For Beck to trust him enough to unload some of the burdens that weigh him down; makes him drink; makes him lash out; makes him pull away, always, at the last second.

Peter thinks, for a moment, what it might be like for this to be mutual.

The only thing that comes is a quiet, “Peter,” and Beck’s fingers curl in a loose grip, his thumb running along Peter cheekbone. Beck watches him intently, unassuming, and even though he’s eyes are glazed over and red, they hold a certain fondness that makes Peter’s heart clench.

It’s at the moment that Peter, once again, remembers that tragic thing that’s been nagging at him for weeks. That still, out of all the things they’ve done, together and to each other, they have never, ever kissed. He’s felt Beck’s lips on his palm, and on his most sensitive areas, but never has Peter felt them on his own. And, at once, he’s filled with that intense longing that’s been creeping for some time.

It wouldn’t be right to kiss him now, not while the whiskey still wears.

But when has _any_ of this been right? When have they ever played by the rules? Beck took what he wanted, didn’t? And Beck’s looking at him like he wants to, and Peter feels his that gentle touch on his cheek guiding him down and oh, god.

Peter closes his eyes.

He feels knock of Beck’s forehead against his, feels a shaky breath against his cheek, so close to his mouth. “You don’t know how bad I want to kiss you right now, Pete,” Beck whispers.

He thinks he might have an idea.

“Kiss me,” Peter says. It comes out like a plea, one he should be ashamed of, or at least embarrassed by. He can’t be though. Not when he’s so desperate for it. Not when each passing second feels like the worst kind of punishment. So, no, he’s not above begging. “Please, Beck, kiss me.”

“I can’t.”

Peter pulls back just enough to see the heartbreak on his face. “Because you’re drunk?”

“No, you don’t understand.”

“Stop saying that. Stop saying I don’t understand,” Peter says, voice cracking and breaking. “How can I when you won’t tell me? You haven’t told me shit.”

“I can’t,” Beck repeats. It sounds final, but Peter doesn’t care. He’s not leaving this bed without an answer or a kiss. Preferably both.

“Why won’t you kiss me? If you want to, just do it. Jesus fucking—”

“I don’t deserve to, Peter,” Beck snaps. Peter flinches at the anger in his tone, scratching through what could have been a beautiful moment like nails on a chalkboard.

"No, you're just a coward," Peter bites back, and it's Beck's turn to flinch. There's regret, for a moment, but at least that hurt expression calms his own ache. He’s accused him of the same thing, time and time again, but it still holds.

They’re both so scared of what this means, of what they’re doing. The consequences that come with it. The origin of it all. Peter still remembers, and Beck does too—but they fell down the rabbit hole together and there isn’t going back now. There’s no room for fear anymore.

Beck looks away, a strange twist of a smile on his face. "Maybe you do understand."

Oh, come the fuck on.

Peter groans and flops down on his back, bringing his palms to his eyes and grinding down until he sees stars. Something bubbles in his chest and, at first, he thinks it might be a sob, but the noise that tumbles out is definitely a laugh. Then another, and another, until his hands have to move from his eyes to his mouth to hold them in.

“What?” Beck hisses, and oh god, he actually sounds _offended._

“You,” Peter somehow manages to get out between his fit of giggles. He turns his head on the pillow, just enough to catch a glimpse of Beck’s mirrored position—he looks fraught, horrified. It only makes Peter laugh harder. “Do you always have to be so melodramatic?”

Beck scoffs, but his lips, miraculously twitch into a repressed smile. Got him.

“Seriously, man. Can you laugh?” Peter asks. He knows that he can, of course. It wasn’t that long ago they were laughing together. Just a few days ago—but Peter wants to hear it again, and there is no better way than to goad and tease.

“Of course,” Beck says, obviously offended at the accusation, but still not sure enough to sound confident.

“Do it then,” Peter needles, and just to test a theory, prods him in the side. “Laugh.”

“Stop it, Peter. I—I mean it—”

It’s a wonder Beck gets anything out at all, Peter’s gone from playful pokes to a full-on assault and isn’t until he can’t a full-bodied laugh that he relents. Just a little. Just enough to soak in the way his eyes crinkle.

The laughter dies down into something more subdued, trailing off into quiet, satisfied hums, leaving both Peter and Beck to face each other with the haunting reminder that if they weren’t laughing, they’d be crying.

“You don’t have to kiss me,” Peter says, voice hushed, and the mask drops back over Beck’s face. “I mean it. I’m okay with it.”

He’s not, but it seems to lighten up the dark cloud that looms over both them. His stomach twists and turns with emotion that he can’t even put a name to; but Beck nods and whispers a thank you and Peter can’t help but give him a reassuring smile, despite his own inner turmoil.

“I should get going.”

“That seems like a good idea.”

Peter squashes down the hope that Beck might ask him to stay again; that he might reach out and stop him one more time; that Peter might just kiss him anyway. He’d called Beck a coward, but he isn’t any better. He could have done it, but now the moment has passed and Beck’s agreeing that he should leave, and that’s that. It’s over.

Beck doesn’t reach for his wrist but lets him get up slowly to ease himself off the bed.

“Well, see you around,” Peter says, makes it out like a statement, but the hopeful note at the end says otherwise. A question.

At this point, he doesn’t even know what he wants the answer to be. Beck is so hard to read; he might as well be some archaic text chiseled on a stone wall. One minute he wants him, the next he doesn’t. One minute he’s bringing him into a kiss, the next he’s saying he can’t.

It’s enough to make Peter’s head spin.

Finally, _finally,_ Beck speaks, only to say, “I’ll see you Monday, Mr. Parker.”

Peter scoffs at the formality, even though the teasing is obvious enough. There’s something else coded in it though. A message that says: _Don’t come back this weekend._

Whatever. Peter hears him loud and clear. Yet, strangely, after the rollercoaster that’s been the last couple of hours? Weeks? Months? It barely stings.

“Monday, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'd been really excited to post this chapter because I wrote it months ago, it was one of the very first scenes I pieced together in the timeline and I really liked it. I really hope some of you do too.
> 
> But I want to reiterate a few things. First, this is the first part of a two-part fic, something that I mentioned in my very first author's note. So, this story isn't almost over. It's barely a fourth of the way through. Second, I'm purposely writing this in a third-person limited narration style. That means the viewpoint is from one character (in this case, Peter) and we only explore his thoughts and feelings-- which are extremely unreliable. He is a seventeen-year-old kid in an inappropriate relationship with an older man who has abused him. Beck does have reasons for his strange behaviors, his back-and-forth, but I wanted the journey of this story to be through the eyes of Peter as he tries to figure it out and becomes entangled in this confused, twisted relationship that he can't make heads or tails of. I wanted the readers to form their own theories and reasons along the way before everything is revealed. That being said, that reveal is in the second arc. I have excessively planned for this fic and everything that I've done has been purposeful, but I know that doesn't necessarily mean it will be successful on my part. I get it.
> 
> Because third, I am not a professional writer. I write for fun because I love writing and I love to share my writing with all of you. I know that there will be mistakes, story-related or otherwise. I'm just trying to have a good time here and escape my everyday life by telling stories. They aren't always gonna be good stories and that's fine! I appreciate all of the support from you. I seriously can't extend my gratitude enough. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
> 
> (I'm sorry for this A/N longer than the damn chapter, haha. I just had a few things to get off my chest. :') <3)


	9. Chapter 9

Peter draws a spiral on the corner of his handout. He doesn’t look at it, but follows the motion over and over, listening more to the soft scrape of lead on paper than whatever the substitute teacher at the front of the class is droning on about. The guy looks out of place, dressed in an argyle sweater and baggy khakis, disheveled and anxious while a room of kids in cookie-cutter uniforms stares at him with bored, blank expressions.

Peter feels bad. He gets what it’s like to feel like an outsider.

“Mr. Parker?” Peter startles, his pencil tip snapping with the jerky movement of his arm. At the door, Sister Janice’s weary face pokes through the door. She looks from Peter to the sub apologetically and smiles. “Can I borrow him just a moment?”

The sub— Peter realizes he never caught his name— nods. When Sister Janice turns back to Peter, her face is far less forgiving. Much more judgmental, a flat tone when she announces to the entire class, “Father Beck wishes to see you in his office.”

Peter feels his stomach drop, a sweat prickling on the back of his neck. Quietly, he stacks his papers up and slides them into his folder, puts the folder in his backpack slower than that. Anything to stretch the time. Behind him, someone snickers and another lets out a low whistle. That dread turns to anger quickly.

He fucking told Beck no more school visits.

Sister Janice looks at him with a raised eyebrow, opening the door just wide enough for him to slip through. The hall is empty, save them, and he can feel her disapproving eyes on him. Every click of her shoe on the tile makes him wince as she trails behind him, following him with every step. It puts him in a weird limbo, where he wants desperately to escape the suffocating judgment, and where he’s too annoyed that Beck’s put him in this position, again, to want to see him.

Lesser of two evils—which surprisingly turns out to be Beck because once his office comes into view, Peter breaths a sigh of relief.

“I caught your aunt the other day at the grocery,” Sister Janice says, just as he’s reaching for the handle. His hand twitches and drops limply to his side. “She’s a good woman, your aunt.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter says.

“She cares a lot about you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats, turning to look over his shoulder, offering a weak smile. Sister Janice doesn’t return the gesture and the smile falters. “I should see what he needs.”

Sister Janice hums, giving him a once over. Peter’s never felt so flayed alive by a look before, even in the early days, when he used to get himself off with his pants to his ankles and Beck watching. This one is different. Peter reaches for the door again but a firm hand on his shoulder stops him.

Peter closes his eyes tight, trying not to whimper in frustration. He just wants to get to Beck. He just wants to feel safe again and not—whatever this scrutiny is.

“I knew the whole Beck family,” she says. The tone is strange, conversational and doesn’t align with how tense she’s been. It’s enough to set him on edge, but his curiosity trumps all that unease, he can’t help but turn toward her, wanting more. “I’ve known Quentin since he was a boy around your age.”

“Oh,” Peter says, trying to seem disinterested. This is probably a dangerous conversation to have right outside Beck’s doorstep. “I bet you were happy to hear he was coming to Midtown.”

Sister Janice gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I couldn’t believe he joined the clergy if I’m being honest.”

Peter frowns. This is all highly inappropriate, and Sister Janice has never found the need to speak to him outside of class, minus the occasional scold for running in the hallways. But here she is, trying to rope him into gossip with her fingers flexing against his shoulder in an almost painful manner.

And the worst of it remains, Peter finds he’s so desperate for any bits of trivia on Beck that he wants to hear more. “What do you mean?”

Sister Janice leans in and whispers, “His father drank a lot, a real nasty drunk too, but sometimes he talked about Quentin, saying things that wouldn’t sit right with the Lord.”

The floor drops from beneath Peter’s feet, his stomach curdles with something sour. He shrugs off Sister Janice’s hand and manages a weak smile, backing himself up against the door. Beck’s on the other side, waiting for him, but he’s gotta shake the honey trap of rumors.

“Drunk people say all kinds of things,” Peter says with a fake optimism. The last thing he wants is for her to pick up on his offense on Beck’s behalf. He forces a laugh. “Just the other day, outside the subway, a drunk guy was yelling about the apocalypse.”

“Mr. Parker, I’m trying—”

“He was screaming about aliens coming down from a big split in the sky and destroying all of New York,” Peter babbles just to shut her up. “Oh, and then someone was mumbling outside the corner store about restoring balance to the universe—”

“Mr. Parker,” Sister Janice interrupts, her voice echoing through the hall. “I just want to say,” she pauses, considers something, and shakes her head. “You’re a good kid. I just want you to stay out of trouble.”

Peter knows that’s not what she wants to say at all, but he nods and pretends he appreciates the sentiment. He musters up all the sincerity he can manage. “Thank you—”

Behind him, the door to Beck’s office opens and he stumbles back, caught by two strong hands that feel achingly familiar. Beck helps get him upright, giving him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder that doesn’t linger too long in the present company. “Sister Janice, thank you,” he says, and Peter feels his voice rumble with how close he still stands. “I was needing Mr. Parker to help with some filing.”

Peter looks up, recognizing the lie he had confessed he told to May. Good. They should keep their story straight. Plus, Peter doesn’t feel he’s tough enough to keep up this bad boy, delinquent, persona Beck accidentally created for him.

“During class hours?” Sister Janice asks, and he can tell that she’s tempering her tone to a normal degree of disapproving. The tension between all three of them is so thick, Peter feels like he might choke on all the unspoken words.

He’s still not even sure what those words are supposed to be.

“There’s a substitute, correct? Riva is out.”

“Well, yes—”

“Perfect. I’m sure he won’t mind me stealing Parker for an hour or so.”

An hour. Peter feels dizzy, and he resists the urge to sway back into Beck’s space. Sister Janice frowns but doesn’t argue. After all, Beck is the head of this whole operation—regardless of whether she wants him there.

“Of course,” she says tightly and gives Peter one last withering look before she turns away.

Distantly, he recognizes his aporetic conflict regarding her concern. Her accusations were thinly veiled, enough that Peter might not have picked up on them at all if he wasn’t intimately aware of the ways Beck’s drunk father might have singled him out. If he wasn’t intimately aware of what it’s like to be a teenager with no considerable interest in girls his age, hiding skin mags under his mattress giving away just how different he is.

Beck pulls him into the office the moment she turns the corner and shuts the door.

“What’d she say to you?”

“Nothing,” Peter lies. “Just something about staying out of trouble. Pretty sure she’s the one that ratted me out to my aunt though.”

Beck stares at the door like he can see through it, like Sister Janice might be lurking on the other side, listening. That’s actually not too bizarre of concern, something about her suspicion doesn’t sit well with him either. They shouldn’t be doing this here. They shouldn’t—

“Peter, look at me.”

He hadn’t realized he’d zoned out. He looks up to find Beck staring at him now, not the door.  
Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking.”

This is the first time he’s seen Beck since he’d been at his house, closing in on a week ago. He looks better, at least. Less haggard. He’s shaved, he’s combed his hair back. Peter gets so used to seeing him in his casual clothes, seeing him in his clergy frock makes his stomach twist a little bit in desire. He knows they need to be careful, but maybe one more, for old time’s sake.

Peter stepped forward and smooths his hand down the front of Beck’s chest, watching him shiver.

“Wait,” Beck says abruptly, fingers circling Peter’s wrist. “I need to apologize for the other day.”

“It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not. Peter, you don’t understand—”

“Yeah,” Peter says, he doesn’t try to hide the offense. “You keep saying that.”

“It’s not okay.”

“The drinking?” Peter asks. Immediately he thinks of Sister Janice and her dark secrets, about Beck’s father who drank too much. “You don’t do it all the time. Nothing wrong with it. Just, you know, ask for forgiveness next confession or whatever. You’re not a drunk.”

You’re not your father, Peter wants to say but realizes he doesn’t have enough information to confidently convince himself or Beck. Maybe he is.

“Not just the drinking,” Beck says quietly. “For all of this.”

Peter’s stomach flips. “It’s okay,” he says again.

“It’s not,” Beck growls between clenched teeth. Peter snaps his mouth shut, eyes darting from the tight hold Beck has on his wrist to the way his hollowed eyes are baring into him. There’s so much there, on his face, and Peter can’t read any of it. “It’s not okay and neither is this.”

Beck takes his cheek in hand and tilts his face up, holds him steady and leans in. Peter holds his breath for the long, drawn-out seconds it takes for Beck’s lips to meet his. He feels like maybe he’s always been waiting for this moment. Beck’s mouth moving against his, coaxing him open in sloppy, heated bites and swipes of his tongue—it could be the worst kiss in the world, and it wouldn’t make a difference to him. He wouldn’t even know any better.

Peter pulls away long enough to catch a glimpse of Beck’s face to gauge his mood, to estimate how much time he has left until Beck’s realized what he’s done and flips out. A punch to the gut. That’s what he finds. Beck looks so hopeless and confused, the perfect curve of his lips left wet and shining. He looks afraid, and he looks excited, and Peter wonders, sadly, if this is the first time Beck’s ever _kissed_ a guy.

“It’s okay,” Peter says, a hushed sound between them. Beck’s gonna rebut it but he doesn’t care. He wants Beck to know that it’s alright to do this—maybe not between them, that might never be right—but to be who he is. “It’s okay, I promise.”

Beck holds his face in his hands, and stares down at him, mouth quaking, jaw ticking. Peter knows it doesn’t matter how many times he says it, Beck might never believe him.

“Nothing that I did to you was okay, don’t you get that?”

“Yeah, I do,” Peter tells him. With one hand he cups Beck’s hand that lays on his cheek, the other hesitantly lands on Beck’s hip, just to keep him close. “I mean, we both played a part.”

Beck shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I—”

“I kept coming back, didn’t I? You said it yourself,” Peter insists. Because it’s true. He kept coming back, over and over. He didn’t go to the authorities; he didn’t go to his aunt. Hell, he could have ended it all in the hall moments ago. Sister Janice would have loved an excuse to burn Beck at the stake. But he also knows the memory that haunts them both, lingering unspoken between them.

Peter squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. “I asked for it.”

“You didn’t,” Beck hisses, he steps back and runs a hand down his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose. Again, he asks, “Don’t you get it?”

“Don’t _you_?” Peter asks. “Don’t _you_ get it, Beck?”

The light shining in from the stained glass makes the watery gloss in Beck’s blue eyes glow. It’s an odd thing to notice in such a circumstance, but Peter stands captivated, watching the mess of a man before him try to work out exactly what that means. Because, after all this, he still doesn’t get it. Peter loves him in ways he isn’t meant to, in ways he shouldn’t, was never supposed to.

Peter grabs Beck by the front of his frock and drags him close. He kisses him again, eager and with renewed vigor. He tries to tell Beck everything that he can’t say with words.

That he loves him.

Beck pulls him closer and kisses him like maybe, maybe he loves Peter too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took nine chapters, but they finally smooched. :')


	10. Chapter 10

Peter resides on cloud nine for the rest of the week. He even catches up with Ned and apologies profusely for being so distant lately. Just a lot of stuff on his mind, he tells him, and Ned gets it. He’s a good friend, and Peter feels more than a little guilty because he knows, deep down, that he hasn’t been one in return. Beck’s been the only thing in his orbit lately.

And Ned asks him, while they’re feeding quarters into Rampage, if there’s a girl.

“What?” Peter sputters, nearly losing his control on Godzilla, ruining his perfect streak. “No—no, just you know…trying to get my GPA back up.” He smashes the button a little too hard. “You know?”

“Yeah, totally,” Ned says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “You can tell me though. If you want.”

Peter sighs, the scoreboard flashing on the screen. He enters in his initials silently, _PBP_, and finds his mind wandering back to Beck. Always back to Beck? What would he put in on the leaderboard? God, Peter doesn’t even know his middle name.

That’s insane, right?

It’s always with some distance that he gets a little clarity, remembers how fucked up this all is, even while it’s morphed to something else.

“No girl,” Peter clarifies for good measure. “You know that I’d tell you if there was.”

Not a lie, not exactly. There’s not a girl. There’s a man. A grown man. Their priest. Peter has to stop himself from groaning or smacking his head against the arcade machine. What the fuck is he doing? Beck’s not his…boyfriend, is he?

Peter thinks of the kiss. How Beck had ran his hands over his cheek, pressed their lips together softly after a series of sloppy bites and sucks to his bottom lip.

No. _No._

That doesn’t mean—

“Okay,” Ned says steadily. If he notices Peter’s inner turmoil, he’s too polite to say. “Another round? Or you wanna hit up something else?”

He reaches in his pocket, fingers brushing against some lint a piece of gum he was saving. “I’m out of quarters. Plus, May is gonna be home tonight and I think she wants to decorate the tree.”

“Dude, Christmas is in like a week. Your tree isn’t up?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, feeling oddly defensive. Half because he knows there’s no real malice in his friend’s concern. It’s the justification of the concern that’s troubling. “She’s just been working a lot. It’s fine.”

They end up playing another round, Ned’s treat, but his points stack up to something rather dismal because his mind refuses to focus on anything but Beck—and May—and the life he once had that he never really realized had slipped away so easily from his grasp. Peter looks around at the shitty arcade, the dim lights, the neon patterned floor and banged up game machines. He’d spent so many afternoons here, making himself sick off soda and working on getting _PBP_ on every single pixeled screen.

Now what? He runs to Beck’s every chance he gets because he’s lonely. He hates an empty house. He hates the empty armchair where his uncle used to sit. He hates that he truly understands why May stays at the hospital, he _does_. But he can’t help but miss her—miss this stupid arcade—miss his best friend.

And he can’t help but miss Beck, even now, even though the lingering kiss is still fresh on his lips and mind. 

He wants to feel it again, and again— maybe other places too. Peter remembers what a thin scrape of stubble feels like on the backs of his thighs. Beck’s mouth, trembling, as it moves against him. That day, months ago now, that sits like a foggy memory in the back of his mind— waterlogged, yet rose-tinted all the same.

But things are different now. Beck is different.

They’re different.

And maybe they deserve another chance.

Peter thinks about it the entire ride home, sandwiched between two old ladies that smell like stale mint and expired perfume, and it’s still not the worst scent on the subway. He thinks about it the entire walk from the station to his block. He thinks about it as he races up the stairs, careful to keep his steps light so he doesn’t disturb his neighbors.

And by the time he jiggles the key just right, unlocking the door to his apartment, he’s made up his mind. For once, Peter knows what he wants.

“May?” Peter shucks off his jacket and hangs it on the coatrack. The big, beat-up box that houses their Christmas tree isn't drugged out of the hall closet as he’d expected. From the kitchen, he hears his aunt’s hushed voice.

He follows the sound, finding her huddled up by the rotary hanging on the wall, twirling the cord with a finger. She smiles brightly when he awkwardly taps on the fridge, then motions for him to sit when he raises an eyebrow in question.

“Yeah, okay, sounds great—” May winks at him. “Yeah, he’s home now. I’ll let him know.”

That doesn’t answer any of his questions. Actually, it raises more.

Something turns sour in his gut. He knows that this has nothing to do with Beck—that it isn’t Sister Janice on the other end. May sure wouldn’t be so damn smiley if it was. Unless that smile was hiding her kept rage and all hell was gonna break loose when she hung up.

May says her goodbyes, hangs up. Hell remains contained, and Peter only feels marginally better.

“What was all that about?”

May looks like she’s about to burst. She doesn’t take a seat across from him though, she turns to attend to a sheet of Christmas cookies that had been abandoned for the phone call. Peter fidgets, watching her work. They’re his favorite kind. Either she’s about to give him the best news ever—or she’s about to drop a colossal bomb on him.

“I was thinking,” May says, conversational and singsong, “that maybe we can head upstate for Christmas break.”

“Seriously?” Peter perks up, face brightening, any lingering fear vanishes instantly. Going upstate to visit May’s family had always been a holiday tradition. Summer too. It was refreshing to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city and spend a weekend in the mountains. But they hadn’t done that—well, not since Uncle Ben died.

She works too much.

Peter’s face falters, just slightly, with the possibility that this isn’t set in stone yet. A pipe dream that will fall through at the last minute. “You were able to get off an entire week?”

“Yep. Already approved.” Her smile widens, bright and full of mirth like she’s been waiting all day to break the news.

“Seriously?” Peter asks again. He can’t help the excitement that wells in him, just the prospect of spending an uninterrupted week with his family—

Shit. What about Beck? Is he gonna just stay cooped up in that sad apartment all break? For a brief moment, Peter allows himself to imagine what it would be like to bring him along. To treat Beck like a real…whatever he is. Not that it can ever happen though. Ever. They’ll always exist in this weird limbo of secrecy. Even if society accepted them, May never would, and not because they’re both guys, he feels confident in that. But, well, Beck is still _Father Beck_ and he’s _still_ fifteen years his senior.

“Seriously,” May confirms, but her face grows worried quickly at Peter’s pensive state. “You want to go, right?”

“What? Oh, yeah!”

“Good!” The smile bounces right back, turns a little too knowing, like she’s privy to some juicy gossip that Peter isn’t aware of. “Plus, I’ve heard a certain Michelle has been asking about you.”

“Michelle?”

“You know!” May reaches across the table to slap his arm lightly. “The Jones girl!”

Oh, right. “You mean MJ?”

May rolls her eyes, but he knows the use of a nickname just fuels whatever notion she has about his teenage fancies for a childhood friend. The truth is, he _may_ have had a crush once upon a time, and he _may_ have spent long car rides back to Queens waxing horrible poetics about MJ, and that _may_ have provided a solid foundation for his aunt’s suspicion. But he hadn’t the heart to tell her that their last trip had resulted in a treehouse confession of a different nature.

MJ knows about _him_, and in turn, he knows about _her._

Still—

“I can’t wait to see her,” Peter says to pacify May’s romantic meddling for now. It’s true, anyway. He does miss MJ— it’s been years, save a few phone calls and letters, and god, maybe he can even tell her about Beck. “And like, you know, just to get away.”

“Yeah,” May smiles, almost a little sad. “We deserve that don’t we?”

They don’t put up the Christmas tree. There’s no point. Instead, they eat cookies and watch Christmas specials and when May kisses his cheek and tells him she’s going to bed, he tells her that he’s going to Ned’s first thing in the morning.

To which, of course, he doesn’t go to Ned’s at all.

He ends up at Beck’s place, sitting on the couch like normal, watching television like normal, keeping easy discussion like normal. But nothing feels normal at all. There’s a hum under Peter’s skin because there’s something that he wants and he doesn’t know how to ask for it and now that he’s leaving town, he’s running on a ticking clock.

And he’s gotta do it. He’s gotta bite the bullet.

“I know we don’t have to like, get each other gifts or something,” Peter mumbles, picking up the conversation that ended nearly fifteen minutes ago about each of their Holiday plans. Beck looks at him curiously, maybe a little nervous. It’s hard to tell. God, he probably thinks Peter’s gonna suggest something insane— especially considering the absolute pity he expressed when Beck confessed that he wasn’t doing shit for Christmas.

But Peter knows what he _is_ going to suggest isn’t sane by any stretch of the imagination.

He hugs the throw pillow to his chest, buries his face against it. Deep breath. He can do this. “But I was thinking maybe…”

Beck’s fingers flex and tighten where they’re curled around Peter’s ankle. He smiles, and Peter can’t help but think it looks a little strained. “Is there something you wanted?”

What a loaded question. There’s so much that he wants. So much. His mouth goes dry and he nods. “Yeah, one thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, well—” Peter stops and swallows, lifts the pillow to his face, hiding the evidence of heat that rises to his cheeks, and groans into it. Shit. Why the hell is this so hard to ask for?

Maybe because, deep down, he knows that the possibility of Beck rejecting him is high. God, he hasn’t even been _spanked_ in what feels like ages. It’s all movies and television and dinner and endless conversation—and fuck if he doesn’t just want Beck to touch him again. Even if that touch isn’t tender.

“Pete?” Peter lowers the pillow, worrying his bottom lip. If he opens his mouth, it might tumble out, and he knows that he needs to be tactful when approaching this. Across the couch, Beck watches him, eyebrow raised. “What is it?”

The beat of his heart thumps so quick against his chest, Peter’s half-afraid that it’s gonna crack a rib. He tosses the pillow to the floor; which Beck’s gaze follows with a disapproving frown. He squares his shoulders, takes another deep breath.

He can do this.

He can _ask_ for what he wants.

This is his decision, that is what’s most important here. That’s what’s gonna make the difference, in the end.

“I want to try again,” Peter says, his words coming out in such a rush that he’s left wondering if Beck understood him at all. The deer-in-the-headlights he gets in return serves as a pretty good indication. But, just to clarify, to make sure they’re on the same page, he asks, “You know what I mean, right?”

Beck’s eyes go dark and once again, the hand on Peter’s ankle tightens to something more akin to possessive than comforting. Weirdly, Peter prefers it.

“Try again?” Beck parrots.

“Yeah—or, maybe, no. Let’s not count the first time, okay? A clean slate.”

Beck stands abruptly, forcing Peter to draw his knees to his chest, to move his legs out of the way. Shit. No. He fucked up. Peter stands too, reaching out and grabbing Beck’s shirt to keep him from running away. It’s pointless, he knows, Beck can break free with a firm shake but— he doesn’t, not yet. Instead, he freezes, minus the faint tremor in his shoulders.

“Beck?” Peter says softly. Wait, _no._ He steps closer and knocks his head against Beck’s arm where his fist tangles up in the soft fabric.

Not Beck, not if they’re doing this.

_“Quentin.”_

It’s strange to _think_ the name, much less to hear it coming from his mouth, in his voice, but Peter finds he doesn’t hate it. Quite the opposite. The intimacy strikes a chord within him, one that hasn’t been strummed until just now. It makes him feel grown-up, it makes him feel equal for once. He lifts his head from Beck’s— _Quentin’s_ arm, only to find a set of blue, bleary focused eyes on him with a quiet intensity.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Quentin whispers. “Peter, god, _do_ you have any idea what you’re asking for?”

Peter tightens his hold this time. “Nothing you haven’t already given me.”

“I’ve given you nothing but heartbreak,” Quentin laughs, humorless. “I’ve given you a fuck ton of issues.”

“That’s not true.” He knows it is.

“Kid—”

“Don’t call me that!” Peter tugs, spinning Quentin around to face him. “You kissed me.”

Quentin blinks, thick lashes fluttering. God, he’s so pretty in the strangest way. A man that rugged shouldn’t be so pretty. And a man with that many excuses and hang-ups shouldn’t be that quiet.

“Why’d you kiss me?” Peter asks. “You’ve never done it before. Actually, I remember you saying that you _can’t. _Jesus, who the hell is making all these rules? And why does it even matter if we’re gonna keep breaking them, huh?”

Quentin finally shakes off Peter’s hold, but he doesn’t turn to leave. He doesn’t point Peter to the door. He places two strong hands on either side of Peter’s face and kisses him harder than they ever dared to in his office. It takes a few precious moments for Peter’s thoughts to realign. Just enough time to open up and let Quentin walk him backward, long enough to stumble against the wall.

Peter is the one to break away first. Holy shit. He needs to catch his breath, and more than that he needs— no, _they_ need— “Bedroom?”

Quentin dives back in, kisses him again. Soundly. Fiercely. Peter almost melts against the wall and, if it weren’t for the strong grip cradling his jaw, he just might. Part of him wants to say fuck it, let him be kissed silly for an hour or two, or maybe live out that past fantasy of being taken right there, but he knows that Quentin’s brain is a fickle mistress and right now it feels mostly on board.

It’s painful, but Peter manages to tilt his head, dodge the sharp bite of teeth on his lower lip. “C’mon,” he whines. “I’m asking for it.”

“Pete,” Quentin growls, mouth moving against the shell of his ear. That deep baritone sends a shudder down Peter’s spine, one that stops and makes camp right between his legs. “I don’t think I can.”

“W—what? You already _have_. I swear,” Peter says, frustrated. He’s not above begging. “I swear that I want it this time.”

Erase the bad memory. Make it go away.

That’s what he wants.

A fresh start.

“Please,” Peter whispers. It comes out broken, shaky; watery and on the verge of tears. He remembers the words that spurred Quentin into action the last time they were in this position. “Don’t you want me?”

The hand on his cheek falls limply to Peter’s side where it catches hold and squeezes. Another wave of raw _need_ rolls through him.

Quentin sucks in a breath. “How could you ask me that?”

“Do you?” Peter presses. His lips are raw, sore from Quentin’s lurid attempts to kiss him, but he likes the feeling. He likes the sting. Even more, he likes the way Quentin’s eyes keep dropping to them, the way his gaze tracks the movement of his tongue across them. That gives him a clearer answer than anything that might stumble out of Quentin’s mouth.

But he wants to hear him say it.

“I never know what you’re thinking,” Peter confesses. “I’m never sure about what you want from this.”

“This?” Quentin asks, but Peter’s fairly certain he knows exactly what that means. “It’s not a matter of what I want.”

“It is right now. Know why? Because I’m asking.” A beat of silence and Peter’s had enough. “So, do you want me?”

He hates how desperate he feels to rewrite their narrative if such a thing is even possible anymore. But this is what he needs, he thinks. To move on from all that, from their ugly start. To make something new, together. Surely, Quentin knows that too.

And, surely, he _wants_ that.

“I shouldn’t—”

“Didn’t ask that,” Peter retorts.

Quentin closes his eyes, the beginning of wrinkles at his corners smoothing out. It seems like that last stronghold of resolve is breaking, cracking under the gentle pressure that Peter applies in the form of a hand on his chest.

“Listen,” he says softly, and Quentin’s eyes open. “I am asking for this—upfront, on the table. All of that. God, I feel like we are always talking and acting in code and look where that’s got us. I know I’m not like, as experienced as you—”

Quentin huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “You have no idea.”

Peter smacks his chest lightly, trying to hide the twitch of his mouth with a frown. “Don’t be an asshole, I’m trying to do something here.”

“Okay,” Quentin smiles. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“I think that what I’m trying to say is— for a long time this thing confused me. You confused me, and you keep saying that I don’t understand but maybe I do more than you realize. I had you figured out from day one and don’t take this the wrong way but—” Peter closes his mouth and searches for the right word. Calling Quentin a coward had been satisfying before, and it’s not far from the truth. Hell, it _is_ the truth. But that’s probably not what he needs to hear at the moment. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“Petrified,” Quentin says, and maybe he means it as a joke, but Peter hears the sincerity.

It’s a scary place for people like them. Maybe no one ever told Quentin he could be brave, so Peter’s gotta do it now. There are cracks and breaks, and Quentin is all but a splintered man, but Peter feels, really feels, like can put him back together if he tries hard enough.

They need to start with _this_.

“So, I’m just telling you it’s okay.”

“What’s okay?”

There’s no delicate way to put it. They stand in the living room, Peter pressed against the wall and Quentin’s body. A hand on his cheek, a hand on his hip, squeezing gently to keep them both grounded and together. He’s just gotta rip off the bandage— crass or not.

“It’s okay if you want to fuck me.”

The world stops for just a moment, and just saying it, hearing it, makes Peter’s stomach flip. The skin on his arms goosebumps and shivers, the hair on the back of his neck stands. He’s hot and cold, and so uncomfortably turned on by just the thought of Quentin accepting that he wants to scream.

And Quentin doesn’t agree that it’s okay, but he does the next best thing in Peter’s eyes. He takes him by the hand and pulls him off the wall.

“What—”

“You said you wanted to go to the bedroom.”

Peter’s stomach flips again. “Oh, yeah, of course. Just— uh, lead the way.”

He lets Quentin lead, even though the gesture is highly unnecessary given the fact that Peter’s been down these exact halls before in a slightly reversed role. Because it wasn’t that long ago that he helped a drunk, limping Quentin to bed. This is different though. Every fiber of his being is alit with a want, a need, beyond his control.

Peter follows him into the bedroom, heart in his throat.

“Peter, listen—”

“No,” he says softly, stubbornly. He reaches out and places a hand on the cold metal of Quentin’s belt buckle. “If you don’t want to do this—I get it, okay? I’ll leave. I won’t ever come back, not if that’s what you want.”

“I’m not saying that.” Quentin studies him, doesn’t try to move his hand away. Peter takes that as an invitation to fumble with the buckle, opening it.

“What are you saying?”

C’mon, Quentin. Just say it. Say what you’ve been too fucking afraid to say for months. Easy to take, harder to admit. Peter’s going to go absolutely apeshit if he doesn’t. His fingers find the button to his slacks next and he pops that open too, taking note of the subtle hitch of breath somewhere above his head.

“I’m saying I’m no good for you,” Quentin sighs, shaky. “There’s no going back from this.”

“We’ve already done _this_, remember?” Peter asks evenly. “We are a long way past _going back_ as it is.”

He tugs the zipper down and Quentin doesn’t stop him.

“Yeah. I remember, do you?” There’s slight contempt there. Peter ignores it, hums instead. “That’s what I mean though. I’ve taken so much, Pete. Are you sure you’re ready—”

“To give?” Peter raises an eyebrow, lips pursed tightly. He steps a little closer, fingers skirting along Quentin’s waistband. Other than the time in question, this is the closest he’s ever gotten to his cock. And the memory isn’t necessarily a good one.

He’ll _make_ this a good one.

He has too.

For both of their sake.

“Because that’s what I’m doing here. I’m giving,” Peter tells him, and god, he hopes Quentin picks up the true gravity of the sentiment. “So, what’s it going to be?”

Quentin kisses him again, kisses the surprised little moan right from his mouth, spinning him around and walking him to the bed until his knees hit the mattress. He hops up, struggling not to break the kiss, but Quentin’s mouth is never far, pressing sloppy pecks to his lips and cheek, nuzzling down his jaw as he climbs on the bed after him. The fly of Quentin’s pants are open, already working down his hips as he scoots them both back until Peter’s head hits a soft pillow. Peter sees a damp spot on the strained fabric of his briefs.

So, that’s what it’s gonna be.

“Just—” Peter swallows, suddenly embarrassed and suddenly so mind-numbingly hard he can barely focus. “Just use your fingers first this time?”

Quentin pulls back, blinking. “Oh,” he mumbles in an odd tone, one that Peter can’t decipher whether it falls closer to confusion or insult. “Of course.”

“I brought something,” Peter says in a rush, and then awkwardly shoves a hand between their bodies to fish out the travel-sized bottled he’d picked up at the corner store. That’d been a conversation and a half— but he’d been optimistic and all the embarrassing research he’d done explained this stuff was key.

Quentin nods, leaning back on his haunches, settled between Peter’s splayed thighs. Peter takes a moment to marvel at him, more specifically the trail of coarse hair that disappears into the waistband of his briefs and the sharp cut of his hipbones. And he's worried about being soft in the middle? Seems a bit ridiculous. He’s always found Quentin unfairly hot—maybe that’s partially why, in the beginning, he let it go on so long.

But he realizes as he watches Quentin coat his fingers, that he should probably, definitely, be less clothed. At once, he struggles to strip himself of his shirt, tossing it to the ground. Okay, maybe this isn’t how it went in his numerous fantasies, most of which had been spun earlier in the day. He’d pictured Quentin stripping him slowly, peeling off his clothes and kissing the skin beneath. He’d imagined the rough scratch of his five o’clock shadow against his stomach and then lower—

He’s got his pants shimmed halfway down his legs when he feels a set of eyes staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” Quentin says quickly. He seems on the verge of something else before he shakes his head and repeats, “Nothing.”

Kinda feels like something. Peter kicks off his pants the best he can, underwear and all. It’s nothing that Quentin hasn’t seen before, but he folds his arms over his chest and draws his legs up anyway. Fuck. Insecurity wasn’t part of his initial plan.

“Hey, you alright?”

Peter hums an affirmative, doesn’t really trust his voice not to break.

“Look at me,” Quentin says, and places that hand—thankfully the dry one—against his cheek, tilting his head up to meet his eyes. Weird. Peter hadn’t even noticed he’d looked away. “We don’t have to go any farther. If you want to—”

“No!” Peter blurts. “No, I need this.”

Quentin’s eyes go dark; like they used to. Like—

He remembers being bent over a couch, a man who he hated behind him, pulling him apart and making him good while simultaneously making him feel so goddamn bad. Bad for wanting it. Bad for begging for more, and more, and more—until the man, who hated, gave him _more_.

He’s shaking, head buried in his knees, and—oh. Those are tears. Hot and fresh. Peter thinks he hears Quentin’s voice, shushing him, telling him it’s okay. Asking him what’s wrong.

_Quentin_.

Quentin isn’t the man he hates, not anymore.

“Pete, c’mon, talk to me,” he’s saying. “What’s going on?”

Peter lifts his head, sniffing back tears. Shit. He looks like such a baby right now, just reminding Quentin that he’s a kid.

“P-please,” Peter says, barely audible over a whimper. Then it’s all too much, and not enough at the same time. The thought of Quentin turning him away now is too much to bear. He needs to feel anything other than this terrifying, hollow ache in his stomach. Peter reaches out, grabbing Quentin by the wrist, tugging the hand slick with lube, guiding it between his slowly parting thighs.

Quentin sucks in a breath.

_“Please.” _

Quentin does nothing but stare, and that pensive look on his face that doesn’t do much to quell the anxiety in Peter’s gut. The tension leaves just a little when he’s laid back again, head on the pillow, knees spread.

Peter holds his breath.

The first push is a lot, a stretch and burn that feels familiar in the worst way. Quentin’s hands are so _big_, and even though he’s only to the first knuckle, Peter hears himself gasp almost pained, reaching up to grab onto Quentin’s shirt.

“Easy,” Quentin coos. “I got you.”

Peter closes his eyes and nods. The lube helps, or he imagines it does. Pretty soon, one finger feels pretty good and even sooner after that, he’s clutching to the collar of Quentin’s stretched-out shirt, panting and demanding another.

By the time Quentin optimistically bullies in a third, Peter is once again aware of how painfully hard he is. He wants, desperately, to wait until he can feel Quentin inside him, filling him completely, filling his head with more pleasant memories to reflect on later. He also wants, desperately, to say fuck that and wedge a hand between him and get himself off like the old days.

“I’m ready—” Peter manages to get out. He does wedge a hand between them, but it isn’t to grab at his cock. He pushes at Quentin’s arm, trying to get him to stop. “Do it, now.”

“Yeah,” Quentin breaths out. “Yeah, okay.”

And this is the first time Peter’s felt lucid enough to really see him. His hair’s a mess, falling forward to frame his face, damp and frazzled, curling just a bit at the ends. His face is flushed, his bottom lip raw and red from biting it. Peter, distantly, thinks he looks handsome. That he’s in his element.

Somewhere between the tangle of their bodies, the cap to the lube clicks open and Peter watches in a daze as Quentin slicks himself up. And, oh, yeah, that’s his cock in his hand. It makes his three fingers look small in comparison. He can’t help that his mouth goes dry, or that he swallows in anticipation, heartbeat quickening beneath his breastbone.

This time, when Quentin lines up and pushes in, Peter is ready for it.

“Shit, _shit, shit, shit_.” He’s aware he sounds like a whiny brat. It’s not even necessarily a bad string of curses. It’s a terrifying mix of overwhelming pleasure and subtle pain. He likes it though. Oh, god, he likes it.

“Yeah?” Quentin breaths out, inches his way in. “That okay?”

Peter bites his lip, muffling his reply, but nods enthusiastically. Holy shit. Yeah, it’s okay. It’s more than okay— but there’s no way in hell his brain is going to allow formative language right now.

Quentin pulls back and eases back in, then again. The third time, the motion is more of a slam, accompanied by a choked moan, and Peter’s honestly not sure if his vision goes black or his eyes just roll into the back of his head.

“Shit, Pete,” Quentin growls. “You feel so good.”

Peter nearly sobs at that. He wants to be good. He wants to be good. _He wants to be good._

“I’m not going to last—_ahh_, fuck, I’m—"

It all happens to fast. Like they’ve been building up to this with great, hurdling momentum— higher and higher and higher and now they’re free-falling so fucking fast that Peter barely registers the hand on his cock or the noise he makes when he comes over Quentin’s fist. Or the feral groan that Quentin lets out, slamming into him one last time.

It’s all over before Peter even remembers it starting.

And maybe, if he were in a clearer state of mind, that might strike him odd. But any questions, any doubts that he may have had about what transpired between them, are washed away and buried beneath how it feels for Quentin to flop down beside him and scoop him up.

It feels perfect.

He wants to say something but he’s so tired, so drained. If he closes his eyes, just for a moment maybe he can regain some stamina and they can go for round two. Maybe go for a little longer…

Peter’s eyes are so heavy, and Quentin’s body is so warm and inviting and somewhere, in the back of his head, he wonders if this is what it’s like—to be in a relationship.

Quentin presses a kiss to the back of his head, and as he swims in and out of consciousness, Peter thinks he hears him say with an unsteady waver, “I’m going to do right by you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated & please come yell with me on twitter! @shineonloki1


End file.
